


Efflorescence

by h_lovely



Series: Roses [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Confessions, Consensual Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Face-Fucking, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Glasses Kink?, Inevitable Romance?, Light Bondage, M/M, Meddling Friends, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Non-Consensual Kissing, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Piercings, Riding, Sex Toys, Sexual Harassment, Slow Burn, Smut, Spanking, Tattoos, Unwanted Sexual Advances, Versatile Relationship, eventual mild D/S undertones, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8209895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h_lovely/pseuds/h_lovely
Summary: "Are we flirting?"
  
  "Do you want to be?"
[Efflorescence (n.) a state of blooming, flowering, and development.]





	1. taking it slow, but it's not typical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [theme music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyASdjZE0R0&noredirect=1)   
> 
> 
> I adore these ignorant idiots, probably too much. Enjoy.
> 
> (Photoset by the wonderful [@superlazytuesday](http://superlazytuesday.tumblr.com/post/156770167856/finally-with-a-swig-of-his-drink-hanamaki-says)  
>  Thank you again kind friend!)

 

Hanamaki Takahiro considers himself lucky.

The luck of course comes with things like scratch tickets, finding a rent-controlled apartment in Gaienmae, and predicting the weather.

He is not, however, lucky in love.

“Do I look like a masochist to you?”

Oikawa is side-eyeing him while simultaneously running too-long fingers through his brunette waves, primping. This in turn automatically negates the seriousness in his response, or at least Hanamaki’s willingness to listen. “It’s a blind date, Makki,” the man huffs switching to precisely studying his fingernails. “Don’t act so melodramatic.”

“That’s what you said the last time,” Hanamaki mutters through a clenched jaw.

“This will be different,” Oikawa replies breezily.

“That’s what you said the time before that.”

“He’s right,” comes a low voice from behind, the tone sounding quite begrudging to admit anything of the sort. Hanamaki turns a fraction to find Iwaizumi toting steaming coffees and a resident scowl. “This’ll be different.”

Oikawa’s features brighten and Hanamaki has to stifle a grin at the way his chest puffs a little at the solidarity. “It will be different,” he repeats. “Because we’ll be there with you, Makki.”

Hanamaki’s eyes widen. “How could I ever refuse such an offer?” he croons, purposefully nudging into Oikawa’s elbow and nearly causing him to spill down his chin.

“ _Makki_ ,” Oikawa admonishes, stepping back to lean into his fiancé and away from the offender. “What happened to you that made you so bitter?”

_Bitter?_ Huh. He’s never looked at it that way before. But he supposes sarcasm and bitterness do sort of go hand in hand if one is ambitious enough.

Hanamaki opens his mouth to retaliate, but Iwaizumi beats him to the punch. “If you don’t say yes we’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I understand your need for self-preservation,” Hanamaki drones, giving Iwaizumi a very pointed look. “But I just can’t quite grasp the logistics of going on a date with you two and a stranger.”

“It’ll be fun!” Oikawa’s smile is sugary and too wide and just looking at it makes Hanamaki’s stomach begin to ache, but there is a part of him (a very minuscule, nearly nonexistent part, mind you) that is growing hopeful that perhaps this time it _will_ be different.

He doesn’t say anything remotely close to an actual acceptance, but the other doesn’t seem to care, still smiling. “I’ll text you the address.”

* * *

It’s almost exactly one week later, a few more hours into evening, when Hanamaki walks up to the restaurant of Oikawa’s choosing.

The place is fancier than he’d been expecting and Hanamaki surreptitiously crooks his neck to study his choice in clothing: black denim and a violet button down his sister had given him for his birthday, sleeves rolled and cuffed to show off the barely evident trail of windy, ink sketched roses creeping out near his elbow and across the top of his forearm, thorns prominent.

When he walks in he spots Oikawa and Iwaizumi instantly, sitting opposite an unfamiliar silhouette of a tall brunette. Well, at least Oikawa had gotten the type right this time. The couple is busy arguing and snipping over something or other and Hanamaki is fairly certain he can hear the way Iwaizumi’s jaw is grinding all the way from the front door.

The hostess gives him a definite once over, her red painted lips pursing near the open collar of his shirt. He meets her eyes evenly. Like hell was he going to wear a tie- he’s done his damnedest not to since graduating high school and (save for that one horrendous job interview) he’s been very successful in that. Hanamaki gestures towards the table holding Oikawa’s cutting smile and Iwaizumi’s tensing shoulders and, after a second’s more contemplation, she waves him forward in lieu of bothering with it all.

Hanamaki walks past two gargantuan Imari urns scrawled with red and blue dragons and golden blossoming designs that catch the light of low hanging chandeliers made to glow like candlelight. The floor is decadent carpet of teal and burgundy and feels odd beneath his shoe-clad feet as he walks towards their four-top, eyeing the wood-backed chair left open specifically for him.

This place is too much, really. The little vases overflowing with purple sakurasou surely tip it over the edge. What, had Oikawa skimmed through his phone until he’d found the most exceptionally romantic place possible? Probably- _definitely_. (It was a stupid question anyways.)

“What is this place?” Hanamaki scoffs noncommittally before his hand even makes it to the back of his chair. He quirks a brow at Oikawa, purposefully ignoring his presumed date who has only minorly flinched in his peripherals. “You better be picking up the tab.”

Oikawa stares up at him, something about his expression portraying shock or nerves. Odd because Hanamaki is always this rude to him, nothing to be shocked or nervous about. He turns finally to regard the man sitting opposite Iwaizumi and falters, nearly falling the rest of the way into his seat.

“Issei-” the name nearly catches in his throat, unfamiliar. “-you’re here.”

For what it is worth, Matsukawa looks a bit shocked by the proceedings as well, or as shocked as the consistently neutral man can look at least. His thick brows curve to match a barely there smile, his dark curls a bit more out-of-place, his jaw sharp and even though he doesn’t look that much older he has an aura about him; more mature. He’s wearing glasses, chunky black plastic framing his low-lidded eyes. There are small, black studs in both of his ears.

After a few heartbeats he speaks, soft but familiar. “I’m here,” he says.

Hanamaki bites against his tongue before he can properly respond. “I mean, you’re here in Japan.” He can feel the duel pairs of eyes boring into the side of his face from across the table. “You’re back,” he clarifies.

The corner of Matsukawa’s mouth might have twitched just a fraction. “I’m back,” he nods.

And so, with niceties exchanged, Oikawa finally breaks through the suddenly suffocating haze. “Wine for the table?” he wonders cheerfully, waving across the room at a hovering waiter.

“Beer,” Hanamaki corrects abruptly, his voice sounding bizarre in his own ears. “Or maybe something stronger.”

“Gin and tonic.” Matsukawa regards the waiter over Hanamaki’s head before gesturing between them with casual fingers. “Two of them.”

Hanamaki blinks and then nods once, unnecessarily. Shit, when had Matsukawa gotten so smooth?

Iwaizumi, for what it is worth, does order a beer and Oikawa only pouts for a moment before requesting a glass of rosé. The four of them sit there then, studying leather-bound menus and pretending to be deep into their decision making. It takes approximately twelve seconds for Hanamaki’s eyes to start wandering, edging to peek at the man sitting next to him, just sitting there casually tapping fingers against the edge of his menu, totally unaware that he is so obviously the bate in some ill-thought, Oikawa Tooru intermeddling trap.

And even though it reeks of Oikawa, there sits Iwaizumi not speaking a word and hiding half his face behind the entrée section as if in some small attempt to hide the guilt Hanamaki’s scowl is trying to wrestle out of him. Not so entirely un-conspiring it seems.

It takes another thirty seconds for their drinks to arrive, ten more for Hanamaki to start seeing that minuscule little crack in Iwaizumi’s composure, and five more for someone’s cell phone to start ringing.

The tone is annoying and too rhythmic to belong to anyone other than Oikawa, who (for purposes not quite yet understood) puts on such the curious and confused expression as he stops swirling his drink in order to answer the _apparently unexpected_ phone call.

Seven more seconds and Oikawa is tugging Iwaizumi up out of his chair and spouting off some nonsense about caterers or flowers or something relatively wedding related and that _they have to take this call_. Iwaizumi, perhaps less involved in the scheme than originally suspected, frowns and stares at his fiancé as though he is entirely uncertain of what wedding he is even referring to. Oikawa drags him away by the wrist, anyways.

Matsukawa is the first to break the silence. “I can’t believe it,” he says.

Hanamaki turns, feeling suddenly very much out of his element. Of course Matsukawa can’t believe it, here they are sitting next to one another on an apparently pre-conceived style of a not-so-blind date. It has been over four years since they’ve last spoken, a little less since they’ve last seen one another in person. All in all, yes this is quite an unbelievable scenario for them to have found themselves in, no thanks to their so called friends now presumably debating the merits of plated verses buffet in the restaurant's lobby.

“That those two are actually getting married,” Matsukawa adds then, interrupting Hanamaki’s rambling thoughts. The minor clarification turns Hanamaki’s internal monologue on its head, but he insists on not panicking and instead just nods his agreement.

“They live together and haven’t killed each other or been seriously injured yet.” Hanamaki’s mouth stumbles into a sideways grin. “They bicker like they’ve been married for thirty years, so I guess why the fuck not?”

Matsukawa turns to regard him through his glasses. “How have you been, Hiro?”

A dagger straight through the heart. Hanamaki slants his gaze away and makes some noncommittal gesture with his fingers. “Good. You?”

“Good,” Matsukawa repeats, sounding less like an answer and more like an assessment.

There’s a pause, not a natural one. Hanamaki fills it with the first thing his overactive mind can come up with. “Last I heard you were seeing someone.”

Matsukawa gives a startled little chuckle. “When was the last you heard?” he wonders, eyes drifting back to the menu splayed in front of him. “I’ve been single for almost five months.”

“Oikawa’s knack for gossip must be going.” Hanamaki shrugs one shoulder even though Matsukawa isn’t looking.

Another pause, this time for Matsukawa’s smile to grow. “I bet he thinks he’s cute.”

Hanamaki steals a glance and finds Matsukawa’s face thoughtful. He smirks. “And cunning,” he appends.

Matsukawa brings a large hand up to run against the tiniest bit of stubble on his chin. “I’m touched that Iwaizumi hasn’t tried to put an end to this yet.”

Reaching for his drink Hanamaki gives a lengthy sigh. He spins the ice a few times and sips before explaining, “I hate to say it, but I have this feeling it was partially his idea.”

“You’re right.” Matsukawa’s voice dips with amusement. “They act like they’ve been married for eons, scheming and all.”

And that’s when they hit their proverbial wall, as it were. Conversations had never been this difficult between them before, but Hanamaki supposes that four years and something like 7,000 miles can do that to a friendship.

Finally, with a swig of his drink, Hanamaki says, “How was Barcelona?”

“Fine,” Matsukawa says.

Hanamaki frowns. “Fine? You lived there for nearly half-a-decade and that’s all you have to say about it- _fine_?”

“Oh, did you want a play-by-play?” Hanamaki’s eyes become transfixed on the way Matsukawa’s smile spreads wide. “Come over after dinner, I’ve got photo albums galore.”

Swallowing, Hanamaki hides behind his words. “Is that your subtle way of getting me over to your place, Issei?” he replies with a backhanded coolness. “How very clever of you.”

“Were you expecting anything less?” Matsukawa has brought an elbow up to rest on the table, turning to face the other man more fully. His skin is darker than Hanamaki remembers.

His fingers tighten around his glass, the condensation cool against his flesh. He meets Matsukawa’s gaze head-on. “Are we flirting?”

There’s a pause and Hanamaki watches the way the muscles in Matsukawa’s throat constrict and how his tongue flicks over his bottom lip unconsciously. “Do you want to be?” he asks, finally.

As if air has been forcefully sucked from his lungs Hanamaki feels his chest start to ache. “I don’t think I can subject you to that sort of thing.” He watches for Matsukawa’s reaction, but the man gives nothing away. Hanamaki tries not to trip over the sardonic lilt to his words. “According to Oikawa I’m bitter and cynical and unloveable.”

Matsukawa is quick, quicker than Hanamaki would have guessed him to be. “Sounds like just my type,” he says.

Something sticks in Hanamaki’s throat. He opens his mouth to speak but instead Matsukawa leans in and kisses him. His lips are warm and softer than expected.

“There, now the pressure’s off,” he whispers when he pulls back.

It takes a few seconds for Hanamaki’s mind to come back to him and by the time he finds his voice Matsukawa has righted himself in his chair and Iwaizumi and Oikawa are scooting back in to rejoin them.

“Wedding still on?” Matsukawa hums, joking as if he’d not just been kissing his estranged best friend quite unceremoniously only seconds before.

Iwaizumi snorts, rolling his eyes at just the mention of it. But when Hanamaki’s gaze flicks to Oikawa he finds the man’s wide brown eyes watching him rather intensely. The stare makes his skin start to crawl, but in the moment he can’t say a word lest he give himself away.

Slowly Oikawa’s lips peel back in a grin and his gaze lingers only a few more seconds on Hanamaki before turning to regard Matsukawa and finally back to his own fiancé. There is something dangerous and knowing in those depths. Very purposeful and Hanamaki is starting to realize that this is morphing into something much more than just some meddlesome trickery.

He wants to get up and leave, wants to shout at Oikawa to stop all of this. Instead all he can do is sit there staring at the menu blurring in front of him.

His lips are still warm from the kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a long time coming, I've had most of it written since April and am just now getting around to feeling good enough to start posting it. It is my second child (as _We'll Eat Cake_ was my first) and any love or feedback will be so tremendously appreciated and responded to with fervor!
> 
> [come talk matsuhana to me on tumblr](https://h-lovely.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	2. take me back to a time only we knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“If this is your way of trying to seduce me-”_   
>  _“You’re the one that came knocking on my door at ten o’clock at night, Hiro.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is slow burn?

_‘Team bonding’ is what they called it. By his third year and seventh or eighth ‘team bonding’ experience he knew it better as just an excuse to get drunk and ridiculous in Oikawa’s parent’s decked out basement on the occasion they stayed the weekend at his sister’s house in north Sendai._

_Currently, much to his amusement, he was getting to witness for the fourth or fifth time that night the way Iwaizumi tried so valiantly not to let Oikawa get away with crawling into his lap on the chaise in the corner when they thought no one was watching._

_It was disgusting. But also (and it pained him to no end to admit this) it was kind of— sort of— actually_ cute _._

_"So I applied to a couple of universities overseas.” The words trickled into his ears, pulling his attention away from the ace’s red cheeks and back to the man sitting next to him, too close with their bodies touching from knee all the way to shoulder. Issei was smiling, but there was something tight about his expression. “And I got accepted.”_

_Hanamaki blinked, any residual sickness (or dare he say it- weirdly unfounded jealousy) at the sight of their two hopeless friends disappearing instantly. “Overseas?” he said. “Like America or what?”_

_“Europe mostly. A few have really good journalism programs.”_

_"I’m—” his voice caught at the back of his throat forcing him to swallow through the minor flush he could feel crawling up his neck. “I’m happy for you Issei, that’s great.”_

_It_ was _great. It was definitely, definitely great._

_"Thanks.” Matsukawa watched him carefully. “I probably won’t go anyways, though.”_

_"Well, why the hell not?” Hanamaki shook his head, a bluff, the words tumbling off his tongue with no amount of tact or truthfulness. “It’d be stupid not to take an opportunity like that, right?”_

_“Hm.” Matsukawa hummed a soft laugh staring at Hanamaki with something unreadable in his dark eyes. “Maybe, but I think I’d rather stay here.”_

_Suddenly the space between them felt a little too claustrophobic for Hanamaki’s tastes. He wasn’t sure why- they’d always been prone to sharing personal space, being touchy feely with one another had never been a problem before. But suddenly in this moment Hanamaki felt like he was burning._

_"I think you should go,” Hanamaki spat out, acid welling on his tongue as his stomach clenched. “Or at least seriously consider it.”_

_He didn’t turn, couldn’t turn to watch for Matsukawa’s reaction._

_After a few rough heartbeats of silence, “I will, Hiro,” Matsukawa said._

_It was not clear as to which statement he was acquiescing, but Hanamaki told himself it was most certainly the latter._

_The pink of Matsukawa’s tongue when it slipped out to wet his lower lip before he opened his mouth to speak again tried valiantly to distract Hanamaki from his sudden breathlessness. “Hey, there’s been something else I’ve been meaning to tell you—”_

_"Makki, Mattsun! We’re going to play spin the bottle!” The obnoxious offer came from all the way across the room, Oikawa waving long fingers at them and interrupting the misplaced intimacy without a clue in the world._

_Hanamaki’s reaction was almost instant, knee-jerk despite Matsukawa’s soft frown. “Yikes. Why would I wanna kiss any of you idiots?” he called back, counting down in his mind until Oikawa’s face reached its peak of ugly petulance._

_“That’s no fun!” he whined, lower lip jutting and forcing that familiar disbelief upon Hanamaki that this man was, in fact, their captain. “You sound just like Iwa-chan!”_

_A particularly irritated looking Iwaizumi peeked around Oikawa from behind, vengeance in full force as he pinched powerfully into the taller’s side, sending the brunette into an absolute conniption of high pitched rage and tickle-induced laughter. Hanamaki quirked a brow, but the scene was so incredibly unsurprising that he could barely even find the humor in it at this point. Still, it warranted at least a smirk._

_"Idiots.” Beside him Matsukawa shifted and the movement drew Hanamaki’s attention back just in time to witness the other’s lazy eye roll._

_“Not into spin the bottle?” he asked with a hum, full-welling knowing that wasn’t what Matsukawa’s eye roll was directed towards._

_“It’s not that,” Matsukawa answered easily, the words flowing out of his mouth; almost practiced. “I’d just think we’d want to change it up once in a while. How about a nice game of truth or dare, Hiro?”_

_The offer was directed pointedly at Hanamaki and he felt a scoff building at the back of his throat, but when he turned again to meet Matsukawa’s gaze there was something entirely opposite what he was expecting to find there. Something serious, something almost dark. It had Hanamaki’s mind stumbling and scratching like a painfully skipping vinyl._

_“Hey,” Hanamaki muttered softly, feeling like his lips were moving on auto-pilot as they quickly worked to change the subject. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”_

_“Oh—” Matsukawa’s gaze morphed drastically, widening into something almost a little guilty. If Hanamaki looked closely he thought he recognized something close to anxiety sitting somewhere just beneath the surface, but it was quickly washed away with a shake of Matsukawa’s head. “It’s nothing. Just— we’ll always be friends, right Hiro?”_

_Hiro. Still, after all this time, Matsukawa was the only one who called him by that name. It did something nice to Hanamaki’s insides, something he wasn’t entirely sure he was okay with._

_“Duh, of course.” He shrugged, trying desperately for nonchalance. Matsukawa continued to watch him, but said nothing in return so Hanamaki kept going, struggling towards the light at the end of an unfamiliar place he wasn’t sure how they’d ended up at._

_He swallowed and then flicked his head back towards the rug Iwaizumi was currently (and so, so ignorantly) pinning their flailing setter to. “Now let’s go make sure Oikawa has to always kiss one of us instead of who he really wants to make-out with.”_

_It felt like the right thing to say to break the tension that had so suddenly manifested between them. When Matsukawa’s lips quirked up at the edges, Hanamaki felt his stomach start to settle._

_“Those two are really blind, aren’t they?” Matsukawa wondered, even if his eyes never bothered to meander to their two obnoxious friends in favor of Hanamaki’s face._

_In turn, Hanamaki pretended not to notice. “Yes, Issei, they truly are.”_

* * *

The night isn’t getting any younger, and it seems neither is Hanamaki.

He’s three drinks in when he makes his initial decision.

Iwaizumi doesn’t question it, only eyes him with a vague sort of interest as he throws down some bills atop the table laden with late-summer condensation. Oikawa, on the other hand, fits him with an entirely knowing and infuriating grin.

Hanamaki feels his teeth grind with the urge to actually growl at him. Oikawa’s eyes just glint in the soft lighting above them. “Leaving so soon, Makki?” he purrs, leveling Hanamaki with a sideways glance as he sips casually at his half-full beverage.

For a moment Hanamaki considers replying with something scathing and otherwise crude, but then realizes at just what cost entering into a sparring war at this current and precarious juncture might come at. Oikawa is, after all, annoyingly correct in his assumption.

He takes a taxi to the address that had been scratched out onto a wrinkled cocktail napkin, trying to relax into the buzz he’s gone to such lengths to acquire— trying to convince himself that this is the right thing to do. With a sigh he finds his gaze hazing over as he stares out the backseat window; it’s turning into quite the uphill battle.

But still, the motivation of alcohol in his bloodstream and unadulterated curiosity keeps him from turning right back around after paying the driver and hopping to the curb outside of a very tall, very intimidating apartment building.

There isn’t anything exceptionally memorable about apartment 1310. In fact, there is absolutely nothing about the doorway that would lead one to believe that anyone of note or interest resides there. Maybe that’s Matsukawa’s preference. Or maybe Hanamaki is at the wrong door or wrong building entirely.

He knocks anyways against his internal judgment. Three knocks in rapid succession, probably a bit too urgent. Silence follows, heavy and thick in the open hallway. Maybe he isn’t even home, Hanamaki thinks, maybe he should have called ahead. Of course, that would have put a damper on the whole impulsive, spontaneous image he had been working up all the way here.

A few more heartbeats later and the door finally opens.

The apartment does, in fact, belong to one Matsukawa Issei as there he stands, clad in sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt Hanamaki hasn’t seen since their high school days and looking a bit too small for the new, exaggerated broadness to Matsukawa’s shoulders.

“Takahiro.” Matsukawa speaks in a casual tone. “What are you doing here?”

For half-a-second Hanamaki considers turning on his heel and cutting his losses right then and there. Instead (totally _not_ imagining the way those now slightly smirking lips had felt against his own nearly two weeks prior) he says, “I believe you promised me stories and, to accompany them, journalist quality photos.”

“I’m flattered that you would remember,” Matsukawa answers, that smirk unfolding into a soft smile across his features.

Hanamaki pauses, momentarily frozen by that smile. “I figured it was about time to cash in on the offer,” he spits out, stumbling a bit over the underlying meaning there.

With a broad look, Matsukawa takes up a leaning stance against the doorframe, arms folded languidly over his chest. “I guess it worked then— even if it took something like two weeks.”

An immediate heat runs straight to Hanamaki’s cheeks. He ducks his head to hide it, but then realizes his mistake when the sound of quiet, velvet laughter fills the space between them. When he looks back up, Matsukawa is studying him with an oddly flustering curiosity.

Hanamaki bites against his tongue, hard. “Well, are you going to invite me in?” he snaps, though the put-on anger is clearly overshadowed by the redness he can feel spreading to the tips of his ears.

Matsukawa just inclines his head and pushes off the frame to step away, turning slightly to lead Hanamaki inside.

It’s a small apartment, smaller than even Hanamaki’s own, with an unmade bed tucked away to one side nearest the only window and partially obscured by a screen printed with bamboo and small, golden cranes. The kitchen takes up one corner with a well-loved wok and a few cabinets, but mostly industrialized shelves lined with mismatched mugs and bowls. It’s clean though, Hanamaki can tell even from his stance still awkward on the several tiles delineating the entryway. There’s a TV and a couple of bookcases scattered with ordinary clutter and an impressive collection of dog-eared paperbacks. But what captures his attention most are the leather-spined albums taking up residence beneath the cube shaped tables flanking each arm of a comfortable looking couch.  

“So that wasn’t just a line,” he mutters before Hanamaki can really think about what he is saying. His buzz is wearing off, but slowly. It’s not that he’s surprised really, just a little bit more curious than before.

Matsukawa follows his line of sight towards the albums and the edge of his lips curl up. “I can assure you that I’m not really that sleazy,” he says, un-offended, before gesturing towards the couch with a broad palm. “Make yourself comfortable. Do you want something to drink?”

Things are escalating so quickly now that Hanamaki finds himself toeing off his shoes and moving forward without much of a second thought. This seems somehow— _normal_. The domesticity, the easiness flowing between them. He almost forgets that they haven’t been like this since Matsukawa left him behind in Miyagi.

Hanamaki’s teeth grind down and the inside of his cheek catches between his molars as he flops down onto the couch, now turned to face Matsukawa in the kitchen. When he runs his tongue against the stinging flesh he can taste copper.

“What have you got?” Hanamaki asks.

Matsukawa seems unsure himself of the answer as he pries open his refrigerator to look inside. “Water, tea,” he rattles off, his voice echoing back off of the nearly empty acrylic shelves. He turns then to fit Hanamaki with an appraising look. “Vodka, if you’re interested.” He doesn’t even bother to open to freezer to check for it.

Hanamaki’s head shakes, a cursory gesture. “Water’s fine.”

Matsukawa fills two glasses and joins him on the couch. Instead of sitting against the opposite arm he chooses the empty spot somewhere in between the center and the edge, giving Hanamaki an adequate amount of personal space but not keeping his distance.

The water is cool on Hanamaki’s tongue, but suddenly he’s wishing it had more of a burn to it.

Matsukawa turns to him, an arm folded over the back of the couch. “How many times did Oikawa try to get you to call me?”

Hanamaki smirks. “I lost track sometime last week.”

There’s a moment of silence between them, only interrupted by Matsukawa’s quiet chuckle. “But you’re here now,” he finally says.

“I’m here now,” Hanamaki agrees. He suddenly feels dizzy.

For a brief second Hanamaki finds his eyes pulled to the fingers on Matsukawa’s hand, the ones tapping away at his thigh in an indecipherable hyperactive pattern, and wondering if they are going to reach out to him like they appear half-tempted to do.

Instead, Matsukawa says, “What do you want to see first?” He leans over towards his side of the couch, those fingers now tracing the dark spines of several different albums neatly tucked away there. “Marseille? Madrid? Or maybe Rome.” His fingers halt then, curling over the edge of one album in particular and tugging it gently from its ranks.

Matsukawa sits up, placing the book against his lap with distinct care. He turns to Hanamaki and pats the front cover. “Actually, this one I think you’ll like the most.”

With a puff of air Hanamaki exhales, vision flicking between the album and Matsukawa. The other man makes no move to open it, nor does he bother angling it for Hanamaki to see. Rather, he just sits, waiting.

Hanamaki swallows and finds himself scooting over inch by inch until their knees brush together. He isn’t certain, but he thinks he catches the tail end of a smirk from his sideways view of Matsukawa’s face.

“I thought you weren’t sleazy,” he mutters, a subtle amusement pushing through his still alcohol-induced words.

Matsukawa does not turn to him to respond, but simply opens the album’s cover until it falls against the top of Hanamaki’s thigh. “Casablanca, Morocco,” he says.

It goes on like that for a while; their proximity close enough that if Hanamaki angles his head up just right their noses will touch or their lips might brush against one another. Matsukawa’s voice is soft as he speaks, narrating each and every picture with a sort of nostalgic euphoria that Hanamaki hasn’t heard from him in ages. If he tries hard enough he can almost imagine that Matsukawa has been waiting on the edge of his seat all these years just to show Hanamaki these photographs.

They flip through page after page of adobe walled buildings, some painted in vibrant shades of aqua and pristine white surrounded by towering palms and emerald fronds while others are left neutral, simple and the color of sun-scorched dirt and desert-fine sand. There’s water, jewel clear, and coasts of calm tides and oyster boats and craggy shoreline cliffs off of which hang precariously old ramparts and ancient fortresses. In each photograph the sky shown is a powerful shade of indigo, oftentimes cloudless, and creating the illusion of infinity even through Matsukawa’s lense. A great cathedral peaks white against the sky and the intricate details and inlaid tiles of the city’s mosque match distinctively the shades of blue found in nearly every picture here.

He’s right, Hanamaki _does_ like this album, with it’s bustling markets and cisterns of impressive gothic architecture matched by Matsukawa’s memories, extensive trivial knowledge, and his eye for capturing each moment in living detail and composition.

But he thinks (maybe a bit guiltily) that perhaps what he likes most is the warm breath against the shell of his ear and the presence of Matsukawa’s arm resting behind him on the couch almost, but not quite, brushing the tops of his shoulders; steady and firmly balanced.

How long had it been since they’d sat this close to one another? How long had it been since Hanamaki had felt this painful upheaval warring somewhere within his ribcage?

He swallows once and leans forward to rest arms against his knees, trying to remember how to breathe. Matsukawa does not follow him, allowing him his space and watching carefully for what might come next.

For a very uneasy second Hanamaki thinks he might just get up and leave. Thank Matsukawa for the water and the pretty pictures and apologize for intruding or maybe apologize for taking two whole weeks to intrude in the first place. He isn’t entirely sure what to do.

So he stays and turns his vision sideways to reach out towards another album, this one older and smaller than the others, a faded brown with the corners starting to fray. He picks it up carefully to set atop the coffee table in front of him, not certain exactly what his motivation is here. Suddenly he feels very much impulsive, like his fingers will start shaking any minute now if he doesn’t _do something_ with them already.

“What’s in this one?” he asks, hoping his voice sounds steadier than it feels.

There isn’t an immediate response and Hanamaki instantly feels guilty for touching anything in the apartment besides what he’s been given inherent permission to touch.

For a brief second in his panic he considers the definite possibility that this particular album that his insatiable mind has stupidly picked out contains pictures not meant for Hanamaki’s eyes at all, ever. Perhaps they are of past relationships, past people Matsukawa has sat on this very couch with and shown these photographs to and said crazy things like ‘ _actually, this one I think you’ll like the most.’_

And then he thinks, for only a heartbeat, that maybe they are nudes. Like the artistic, black and white images of the naked body, tasteful and aesthetically pleasing sort of nudes. Of course, Matsukawa had always been unapologetically uninhibited— walking around the clubroom after practice in nothing more than what seemed at the time like a washcloth and snapping smirked comments and ten-dollar words at Oikawa or anyone brave enough to come within his general vicinity. Hanamaki had always liked that about him. Up until now that is, because the suddenly very real possibility that behind the faded cover of this photo album there are pictures of a naked Matsukawa Issei (or a naked _anyone_ ) is beginning to make Hanamaki sorely regret ever agreeing to go drinking with Iwaizumi and Oikawa tonight in the first place.

His overactive mind, he fears, is going to be the death of him.

Hanamaki turns, backpedalling up a steep hill. “Sorry, you don’t have to show them to me. I shouldn’t have—”

“They’re from high school,” Matsukawa interrupts calmly.

_Oh_. Hanamaki’s head shakes from one side to the other a couple of times before he screws up his brows and feels the bitter residue of alcohol attacking the edge of his judgment again. “Why the hell would you want to remember that?”

Instinctively he looks up to catch Matsukawa’s response, feeling the unease at his sharp words immediately. He’s staring at him, almost curiously. Hanamaki feels his teeth clench. What a nasty thing to admit. Maybe Oikawa is right, he really is—

“Bitter? Unlovable?” The words ring as familiar as the evening he’d first uttered them himself. Matsukawa’s head cocks slightly to the left, still staring. “Yeah, I’d say that’s definitely my type.”

Hanamaki isn’t certain how it happens, but suddenly Matsukawa is on top of him, pushing into his space until their noses are nearly touching. Hanamaki lets his foot slide off the couch and to the floor with a muffled thump, the sensation almost enough to ground him.

Matsukawa doesn’t do anything for a moment other than regard the man beneath him, studying him almost as if he’d had the idea that Hanamaki would’ve pushed him off by now with an unsightly curse or perhaps an amused half-grin and a snide remark. Hanamaki hasn’t though, perhaps only because his body has gone entirely numb at the physical contact and the fact that if he moves now Matsukawa will definitely see just how _greatly_ this had affected his body.

Above him Matsukawa breathes in once, slowly. “Is this okay?” he asks, barely a whisper, like he’ll back off entirely if Hanamaki shows any remote signs of uncertainty and go back to showing him photographs of far away countries and oceans and places he thinks Hanamaki will _like the most_.

Instead Hanamaki finds it in himself to nod, a firm gesture so as not to be misconstrued because, in this moment, he isn’t sure he will be able to survive the night if Matsukawa backs off now.

Matsukawa grins, showing off a thin line of pearly teeth and sharp canines. Hanamaki feels something begin to burn deep in his gut and he thinks for a second that if he doesn’t emphatically recognize it as arousal he might’ve mistaken the sensation for fear.

It’s not like he’s inexperienced in this kind of thing. He’s kissed plenty of guys (and a few girls- for _comparison_ , of course) and had several rather _eye-opening_  sexual encounters during his time at university. This rather promiscuous period in his life being referred to by certain unnamed parties (insert _Oikawa Tooru_ here) as ‘Makki’s Sexual Awakening.’ He has to admit, it _did_ have a sort of ring to it.

But sex does not equal love and in that department Hanamaki finds himself painfully unsuccessful.

He might have liked to say ‘ _painfully unsuccessful up until now,_ ’ but the very poignant feeling of a familiar hardness rubbing against his thigh as Matsukawa shifts atop him brings him sharply back down to the reality of the situation laid out before him.

He isn’t sure how or why or when, but Matsukawa has managed to turn him into a quivering, anxious mess of himself and no amount of his usual salt or vinegar can save him now, even if he tries.

Hanamaki smirks weakly. “If this is your way of trying to seduce me-”

“You’re the one that came knocking on my door at ten o’clock at night, Hiro.” Matsukawa’s smile is slick and Hanamaki can nearly see his own blush in the reflection of the other man’s glasses.

“I was under the impression it was a standing invitation,” he responds, voice hitching and sounding a lot farther from sexy than he might have liked.

“Are we really going to do this right now?” Matsukawa leans into his space another fraction. “I’m always up for banter, but-”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Hanamaki cuts him off before curling up and pressing their lips together firmly.

It isn’t like their first kiss _at all_ (and definitely nowhere near the chaste one from two weeks ago either). But this kiss is different in all the right ways; warm and wet and just edging on _sloppy_ and Hanamaki can’t stop his fingers from travelling up to grip at the back of Matsukawa’s neck if for no other reason than to simply hold him there, locked together, for as long as he possibly can.

Matsukawa’s tongue dips into his mouth, brushing along the soft skin of his lower lip and tracing over the sharp edges of his teeth until Hanamaki’s own tongue twitches into action delving forward to taste and tease.

Hanamaki breathes in through his nose as deeply as he can with his tongue down Matsukawa’s throat. That hardness brushing against his thigh earlier? Now it’s coming dangerously close to grinding down against his own familiar arousal and the anticipation is causing the fingers still straining to hold onto the soft curls draping along Matsukawa’s nape to tremble.

A rumbling sound beckons Hanamaki back to reality, forcing him to focus on the way Matsukawa’s throat is constricting around a deep, heady chuckle and their lips are parting with a glistening string of saliva and a muttered moan at the sudden loss.

Matsukawa is _laughing_ \- at him or the situation or something entirely unrelated like the time back in high school when they’d shouted their ramen orders during one of Oikawa’s deadly serves Hanamaki isn’t entirely certain- but there is definitely familiar, velvet laughter reverberating into the shell of his ear and vibrating across every place their bodies are touching.

Hanamaki only has a second to open his mouth in preparation to snap out an inquiry into what could possibly be _so fucking funny at a time like this_ when suddenly those large, broad palms latch onto his hip and lower back and his body is lifted and maneuvered and _manhandled_ into place suddenly straddling Matsukawa’s hips and _goddamnit why does he like that so much?_

“Been working out?” Hanamaki’s voice absolutely does _not_ quiver as he brings his arms to rest naturally against Matsukawa’s shoulders.

Matsukawa snorts, looking up over the edge of his glasses to meet Hanamaki’s gaze. “You’re still just as gangly and flexible as you were in high school, all bone and muscle.”

“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not, Issei.” Hanamaki frowns, but there is no real confusion behind it.

With a thick, quirked brow Matsukawa responds, the words dripping off his tongue easily. “That depends. If being easy to maneuver and manipulate and _play with_ is your kind of thing, then it’s definitely a compliment.”

A shiver, involuntary and powerful enough for the man beneath him to feel himself, runs straight through Hanamaki’s body at those words. He can feel his eyes blowing wide and tries to train his features into some form of neutrality, but as he watches the way Matsukawa’s own expression shades over into something akin to smugness, Hanamaki knows he’s already lost.

His cock is hard, but so is Matsukawa’s. Both are straining viscously against unnecessary layers of fabric and what space is still left, unclosed, between them.

 _I guess we’re really doing this?_ Hanamaki wants to ask, but the words get stuck in his throat and instead he is letting out a soft whine as Matsukawa’s palm comes to rest flat against the front of his jeans. That is answer enough anyways.

It takes a second for his trembling hands to react appropriately, but just as Matsukawa’s fingers reach out to pinch at his zipper, tugging downward with little pretense, Hanamaki forces his limbs back into obedience, his own fingers reaching down to unsteadily grasp at the soft edge of Matsukawa’s sweats, the fabric and elastic there suddenly feeling incredibly flimsy between his curious gaze and the hardness Hanamaki is trying unsuccessfully not to fondle.

Matsukawa’s thighs tighten beneath him at the first contact and Hanamaki’s eyes shoot up to watch the skin of Matsukawa’s lower lip turn white, clamped between his teeth. The man dutifully holds in the moan Hanamaki can see working at his throat.

There comes a dual pause in their motions, both breathing heavily and trying with every inch of self-control to still their trembling muscles. Matsukawa looks to Hanamaki sucking in a breath before making the first move and pulling him free of his clothes in one fell swoop. The air around them is cold against the pre-cum damp skin of his reddened cock.

But Matsukawa does nothing more than grasp at the base, holding him steady and not breaking their gaze even as Hanamaki’s vision threatens to glaze at the contact. “Is this okay?” Matsukawa asks once more, voice edging on a growl.

Biting back his own growl, Hanamaki’s teeth clench and he thinks for a second that, if he truly wants to, he can end this right here right now with one single word.

But that would surely be suicide.

“Yes,” he groans out. “If you fucking stop now, Issei, I swear I’ll-”

As if on cue Matsukawa’s hand moves upwards, twisting with a flick of his wrist and his fingers run up to play at the head of Hanamaki’s cock, stopping the words flowing from his mouth dead. Apparently, this is where the conversation was to end and the anticipation of the entire evening to peak.

Hanamaki gasps out as Mastukawa’s grip tightens around him and his mind whitens for only a second before his own fingers are instinctually pulling at the waistband of the other’s pants, dipping inside and catching a hold of a matching hardness, just the slightest bit longer, but so similar to his own he knows just what to do to draw out that heart-pounding moan straight from Matsukawa’s chest.

It works like a charm.

Hanamaki falls forward at the sound, resting his forehead against Matsukawa’s shoulder as a flush of arousal forces his muscles to tighten and slacken turning him into a trembling mess of limbs and harsh breaths.

“Hiro,” Matsukawa gasps out as they pull up in slick tandem, sinking into a jagged type of rhythm with one another.

Pulling back Hanamaki watches as Matsukawa’s eyelids sink, narrowing his field of vision down to a sliver and Hanamaki leans forward to capture his lips, startling the other into quickening his movements and Hanamaki quivers with the rush of skin against skin.

His erection is leaking and aching and when was the last time he’d been held in the hands of another human being like this? When was the last time he’d been kissed absolutely breathless, straddling thick thighs, and moaning into another’s mouth without hesitation or thought?

Hanamaki doesn’t think it has ever felt quite like this before.

Matsukawa is grumbling against his jaw, tongue tracing along the bone there, laving and mingling words and kisses down his neck and they are both _so close_.

A wayward hand, fingers shaking, traces up under Hanamaki’s shirt, across his chest as if looking for something steady to latch onto. Matsukawa brushes against a nipple and they both stiffen; Hanamaki panting out a whine and Matsukawa’s eyes blowing wide.

“That’s new,” he murmurs, going so far as to ruck up the fabric of his shirt in order to tug a little at the metal bar pierced through Hanamaki’s skin like he’s testing to make sure it’s real.

Hanamaki might’ve responded in some clever way, but his throat and mind are much too preoccupied to really give a shit. And besides, it feels too fucking _good_ when Matsukawa twists his fingers even harder like that.

Their movements are becoming stunted, unsteady and nearly incontrollable. Hanamaki can feel it low, burning in his gut as he leans forward slightly, his warm, wet breath fogging across the lenses of Matsukawa’s frames. They’re trembling and he pants out a harried gasp as Matsukawa’s tongue flicks forward, scalding hot against Hanamaki’s decorated chest.

It ends up being Matsukawa who tumbles over first, for a myriad of incomprehensible reasons. His entire body tenses, a warm wetness falling out across his abdomen and Hanamaki’s still pumping hand, marking him sporadically all the way up to the sharp, inky flowers curled around his wrist and forearm. But it is not the sensation of heat or the way Matsukawa shakes beneath him as Hanamaki milks every last drop from his spent cock. No, it’s the teeth burying themselves in the sensitive skin and muscle of Hanamaki’s neck and the voice in his ear that pushes him over the edge.

_“Come, Hiro.”_

And he does.

They stay like that for a moment or two, breathing hard against each other and trying to calm their twitching limbs. Matsukawa moves first, shifting the man atop him a fraction and mouthing at the corner of his panting lips, a question unspoken but Hanamaki nods anyways, just the slight tilt of his head.

It was good. He’s alright.

Hanamaki leans to the side, crawling off Matsukawa’s lap and plopping down next to him on the couch. The cum on his hand and shirt is beginning to feel cold and sticky and he feels himself bristle at the thought.

Matsukawa stands and a moment later returns from the bathroom with a warm washcloth, tucking himself back into his dampened sweatpants, shirt abandoned somewhere near the bed.

Pointedly, Hanamaki does _not_ look at the way his abs flex when he walks. He really had been joking earlier with that working out comment. But, well, _shit_ _Issei_ , he thinks as he stands.

He looks down at himself as he zips up his jeans, trying to look as presentable as possible. Matsukawa takes the washcloth back and tosses it near his sullied shirt. Hanamaki raises his gaze a moment later and finds Matsukawa watching him intently.

“We should get coffee or something this week,” Matsukawa offers as if it were the only natural response, perhaps a gesture of thanks or post-hand-job courtesy.

Hanamaki swallows then clears his throat. It feels dry and uncomfortable. “I’m not looking for anything serious,” he says.

One of Matsukawa’s thick brows quirks upwards, but the rest of his expression remains blank. “Oh no?”

“I just—” Hanamaki hesitates, unsure of how exactly to proceed. His fingers still feel a little twitchy. “—I hope Oikawa didn’t tell you anything to get your hopes up.”

“Hiro, I’m not asking you to pledge your life to me.” Matsukawa does not move from his neutral position, but does not relinquish Hanamaki’s eye contact either. “I’m asking you to coffee.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know that.” Hanamaki’s tongue feels too big for his mouth and his voice is on the verge of trembling. The atmosphere around him feels suddenly suffocating and he begins to wonder how he’s managed to dig himself into such a deep hole in the span of just a few minutes. “I just don’t want there to be any misunderstanding.”

“There’s no misunderstanding. We’re old friends, aren’t we?” Matsukawa gestures between the two of them and Hanamaki breaks their gaze to flick eyes towards the door, even if the flush rising on his cheeks betrays him anyways.

From the edge of his vision he watches as Matsukawa’s tongue flicks out against his lips before adding, “Just friends who sometimes get coffee together.”

 _And sometimes jack each other off on the living room couch,_ Hanamaki wants to add. But instead he just nods his agreement.

When he is back in his own apartment, sometime between the inky blackness of night and the purple haze of dawn, he whispers the words to himself to be sure.

“Just friends,” he says but they sound just as foreign as they had falling from Matsukawa’s own lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're thinking and the answer is: the only bad guy here is the ever infuriating art of the _misunderstanding._
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](http://h-lovely.tumblr.com/) if you wanna know more


	3. deep in my bones, i can feel you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Did you ever mentally undress me in high school?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 35 pages long and half of it is smut. You're welcome.
> 
> Incredible artwork courtesy of the wonderful [mlim8!](http://mlim8.tumblr.com/post/159416715845/h-lovely-oh-matsukawa-practically-purrsl)

_The first and only kiss they’d shared in high school was not exactly remarkable. In fact, as far as kisses go, this one was definitely a bit awkward, somewhat sloppy, and definitely ill-defined._

_“This is really good,” comes Matsukawa’s deep voice, trailing across the room to Hanamaki’s ears as he makes his way back into the living room, his mother’s pork buns in hand from where she’d left them wrapped on the kitchen counter before her graveyard shift at the hospital._

_Hanamaki hadn’t realized he’d left his sketchbook out on the kotatsu but now it was too late. “Um, thanks,” he muttered, plopping down next to Matsukawa and letting his eyes roam over the page he was turned to. Scrawling flowers twisted across the page, inky black contrasting against the cream paper, the petals a bit abstract and thorns geometric and sharp._

_“Make them red, Makki,” Oikawa purred from his perch on the couch across from them. “A red rose stands for love and passion.”_

_Hanamaki quirked a brow, still staring down at his artwork. “Two things you would know little about.”_

_Oikawa huffed and turned to Iwaizumi next to him in Hanamaki’s peripheral vision. “Are you just going to let him talk to me like that, Iwa-chan?”_

_“Yes, but only because he’s right,” Iwaizumi grumbled, reaching forward for a warm bun. “Is that a piece for the senior showcase?”_

_“No, it’s just a sketch.” Hanamaki finally looked up, meeting the gazes watching him closely. “Actually I’ve been toying with the idea of getting a tattoo.”_

_“Really?” The way Matsukawa’s eyes lit up had Hanamaki bristling before he even realized the possible meaning behind such a look._

_But Oikawa’s play-scoff interrupted whatever wordless energy had managed to flow out between them. “Could you even handle the pain, Makki?”_

_Hanamaki frowned, his fingers curling into a fist just for show. “How could you ever wonder why Iwaizumi refers to you as Shittykawa all the time?”_

_"It’s a pet name,” Oikawa announced, tilting his chin up to view Hanamaki with a look down his nose._

_Hanamaki schooled his features as neutral as possible. “You keep telling yourself that.”_

_“So a tattoo, huh?” Their gazes were drawn back to Iwaizumi, a warm flush spread across his cheeks, but words sharp as he (desperately) attempted to right the conversation._

_Hanamaki shrugged. “Just a thought. I wouldn’t do it till after graduation anyways.”_

_“But roses,” Oikawa blinked, any real sign of malice gone from his now genuinely curious features. “Really, Makki?”_

_"I like them,” he answered simply letting his fingers trace along the black stems and thorns inked into the paper. “They’re balanced. Beauty and defense.”_

_“Actually that does sound like you, Hiro.” Matsukawa’s voice was light with amusement as he spoke, but when Hanamaki flicked his vision back up he was met with dark, sharp eyes. “Look, but don’t touch.”_

_“That’s not—” he muttered on instinct before thinking to hesitate. “It doesn’t really matter, I don’t even know if I’m going to get it anyways, it’s just an idea.”_

_It took only a few short seconds for the conversation to shift to something safer as Oikawa seemed to very suddenly remember a very important trifle of gossip that apparently needed sharing, but even through the captain’s postulating and Iwaizumi’s groans of (feigned) disinterest, Hanamaki kept catching Matsukawa’s gaze on the sketch._

_It wasn’t until two hours later, after Iwaizumi herded Oikawa out the door and Matsukawa was helping to clear away the small amount of clutter the four had managed to make that the sketchbook was closed and thrown haphazardly into Hanamaki’s school bag without a second thought._

_"You’ve never mentioned getting a tattoo before,” Matsukawa wondered as Hanamaki grasped the strap of his bag._

_“I’ve thought about it for a while,” he said, trying his best for casual, but did not turn around to meet Matsukawa’s face. “I kind of want a change.”_

_“A change, hm?” Matsukawa actually laughed this time, the serious undertone to his curiosity lifting a bit in the air between them. “Or maybe you’re just trying to attract a certain type?”_

_“Shut up,” grumbled Hanamaki, though he couldn’t quite fend off the smirk tugging at his lips. “Honestly I’m not even sure what my type is anymore anyways.”_

_“Ah, Takahiro,” Matsukawa drawled as Hanamaki felt something cloying scratch at the back of his mind. “So young and innocent and impressionable—”_

_When he spun he was met with a broad grin and those hooded eyes and something snapped inside of him. “Have you ever kissed anyone before?”_

_Because this was Matsukawa Issei, of course the abrupt question did not appear to throw him in the least. “I’ve been kissed.” He nodded, unnecessarily. “By a girl once, right before I rejected her confession.”_

_Something almost sour settled in Hanamaki’s throat. “Oh.”_

_"So that doesn’t really count, does it?” Matsukawa still didn’t appear phased, but there was a definite interest based on the way his head tilted ever slightly as he observed the other boy as he stepped slowly around the kotatsu. “Have you ever—?”_

_Hanamaki felt something close to annoyance crawl up his spine because dammit, how could Matsukawa be acting so calm and collected? Shouldn’t he be wondering about the important stuff here, like why in the hell Hanamaki had jumped to a question like this in the first place?_

_Of course, Hanamaki himself didn’t exactly have the answer to that either._

_"Um, no. I’ve wanted to before, but—” he felt his tongue slipping oddly against the back of his teeth as he spoke, like it was running on poorly maintained auto-pilot. “Shit, does that make me some kind of prude?”_

_“You sound so scandalized,” Matsukawa hummed, taking a step closer to lean into Hanamaki’s space. “Like that would be such a bad thing.”_

_The proximity made Hanamaki’s throat tense and the words that escaped his mouth next came out almost breathless. “Issei, I want you to do it.”_

_Matsukawa blinked before pulling back a fraction. “Do what?”_

_"Be my first kiss.” The words tumbled out before Hanamaki could swallow them back down. “That way if I really suck at it—” he trailed off, not entirely sure of what he was implying, but realizing the possibility as soon as his stomach started to seize up._

_Matsukawa was still staring at him as he continued to stumble, trying desperately not to overcompensate. “I didn’t mean—I just want you to—” Hanamaki’s teeth caught his tongue sharply before he could incriminate himself any further._

_Was this all simply his subconscious’ way of releasing all that had been eating him alive, all he’d been tossing and turning over for the last several months? Maybe Matsukawa would just laugh it off, because surely this was beginning to sound like one of their play-jokes, the ones they used in front of Oikawa and Iwaizumi in the club room sometimes to make the other two furiously blush._

_Hanamaki was too caught up in his head to register the taller boy hovering over him until lips were on his own._

_It was nothing like Hanamaki thought it might be. Warm pressure against his mouth, a small peck and then a slick tongue coming to tease at his lower lip. He tried to reciprocate, tilting his head to adjust the angle and opening further. They didn’t touch each other, save for the kiss, even as Hanamaki’s hands flinched at his sides with the need to wrap around the taller’s neck. They kissed delicately and Hanamaki felt like glass under the wet caress. Matsukawa pressed one more open-mouthed kiss, slicking the skin around Hanamaki’s lips before pulling back, but not quite pulling away._

_“I think you should get that tattoo,” Matsukawa said. “It will really suit you, Hiro.”_

* * *

“We had sex.”

“ _What?!_ ”

The way Oikawa’s face lights up closely rivals the exceedingly annoying pitch his voice has instantly reverted to. But, to his grave misfortune, it is too late for Hanamaki to fix his mistake now.

“Well, not exactly sex in the conventional sense.” Hanamaki’s frown stretches downwards as he meticulously reworks the words in his head. “We engaged in activities of a sexual nature.”

Yes, that was accurate right? No need to delve into details here.

“Makki! Congratula-!” but the man’s exclamatory is cut abruptly short by a set of rough fingers pinching at the tip of his upturned nose.

Iwaizumi just raises a brow, ignoring the self-provoked whining in his ear. “I’m sensing there’s more to this story.”

There is a moment of silence wherein Hanamaki thinks perhaps he shouldn’t have confided in these two and just gone about his existential crisis in his apartment alone. There’s some beer in the back of his fridge and the resident stray would surely be curled up, purring on his stoop—that cat had always been a good confidant in the past, quiet and always unapologetic.

He huffs a resigned sigh; his grave is already halfway dug by ever agreeing to the blind double date in the first place. What he needs to work on, really, is finding some new friends.

“When I got there we just talked for a while,” Hanamaki explains hesitantly, purposefully skipping right over the photo albums and sentiments and soft touches and straight to the most pertinent topic of discussion. “Then—I don’t know, it just sort of happened.” He swallows at the thought, schooling his features as neutral as possible before adding, “When I left he asked me to coffee.”

Iwaizumi gives a hum of interest, releasing his grip on Oikawa. “Coffee,” he repeats with a nod and an air of substantial positivity.

“I honestly don’t see what the problem is,” Oikawa interjects, swiping at his reddened nose. “You’ve been all over each other since high school. I believe the appropriate term is _pining_.”

At this Hanamaki bristles, growing immediately defensive.

“That’s a load of crap and you know it.” Hanamaki’s finger jabs in the air between them. “Stop deflecting onto me and Issei. If anyone’s been pining since high school it’s _you_ , Oikawa.”

Large brown eyes roll skyward. “Excuse me, does the word ‘ _engaged’_ mean nothing to you?” Oikawa huffs. “And besides, I was _not_ the one doing the pining. That was all Iwa-chan.” He narrowly avoids another swipe to his face. “Do I look like the kind of person who pines?”

“ _Yes_ ,” comes the resounding answer from both sides.

Oikawa’s lips curl and he points a finger back at Hanamaki’s chest. “Stop changing the subject. We’re supposed to be talking about _you_.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Hanamaki shakes his head, averting his gaze. “It is what it is.”

“You’ve got to admit, Oikawa’s kind of right here—” there comes a squawk of pride just before Iwaizumi’s palm flattens against Oikawa’s mouth to stamp it out. “—back in high school I had to get used to the two of you mentally undressing each other every chance you got.”

Eyes flying back up, Hanamaki glowers. “What are you talking about?”

“Admit it.” Iwaizumi’s face is serious, if not a bit stern and it reminds Hanamaki pointedly of their club days. “This has been a long time coming, hasn’t it?”

“What Iwa-chan is so nicely trying to say, Makki—” scraping Iwaizumi’s hand off his face yet again, Oikawa grins something devilish. “—is that you and Mattsun have been wanting to fuck ever since you laid eyes on each other.”

“Geezus, Tooru.” Iwaizumi pulls his hand away, burned. “And you think _I’m_ vulgar?”

“That’s not even remotely true,” Hanamaki grinds out, the air around them beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic.

“Well fine then, if it’s not _that_ then you’re only proving my first point.” Oikawa’s voice lowers and his lips stretch wider. “You _like_ him, Makki.”

“So what if I like him?” Hanamaki spits out, the words bitter on his tongue. “You two forced us into this—whatever _this_ is. And if it’s not reciprocated then none of this matters anyways. He said, and I quote, _‘we’re just friends.’_ ”

After the words tumble from his mouth Hanamaki stiffens. He can feel his insides start to throb as his guts are laid out on the table between them.

“Just friends? Makki, you’re so dumb,” Oikawa rolls his eyes lazily, but a powerful slap to the back of his head brings around that petulant pout from before. “ _Ow!_ Iwa-chan!”

Matsukawa is right. It’s a wonder that these two idiots are getting married.

“Have coffee with him and see where it goes. We might have forced you into this but you’re the one who went over there and he’s the one who let you in,” Iwaizumi says, voice soft and contrary to the glare he’d harbored just a few short seconds before. “I’ve never taken Matsukawa for someone who’d want a strictly sexual relationship.”

“It’s been years since we’ve really known him.” Hanamaki’s eyes lower, a frown creasing his features. “People change.”

“People change,” Iwaizumi concedes with a nod. “But it’s not always for the worst.”

* * *

He’s running late. Which is a problem because he’d already texted Matsukawa to inform him that he would be _just a few_ minutes behind schedule and now he is _fifteen_ minutes behind schedule and Hanamaki isn’t sure in what world that qualifies as ‘a few’ but he hopes that Matsukawa won’t take it personally.

Today is already turning out to be shitty.            

In hindsight maybe he shouldn’t have had that fifth beer last night. Liquid courage doesn’t exactly lend a helping hand if it’s in the form of the-next-day-hangover-of-regret-and-misguided-decisions.

“You look—” Matsukawa’s eyes dip behind his plastic frames as he takes in Hanamaki’s appearance when he shuffles into the café with the cup of steaming coffee set graciously across from his friend (date? hook-up? fwb?) sharp in his sights. “— _good?”_

Is Matsukawa asking him or telling him? “Flattery will get you nowhere,” Hanamaki grumbles, only now glancing down to really get a look at the wrinkled shirt and pinkish shorts he’d pulled on rapidly halfway out the door. But then his eyes catch back on the large mug before him, a welcome distraction. “Caffeine, on the other hand.”

“Are you okay?” Matsukawa wonders from behind a curled hand of long fingers.

Hanamaki squints across the table at him, leaning forward to blow against the coffee at the same time. “Are you laughing at me?” he wonders between puffs, incredulity and irritation all wrapping up into one very arched brow.

“You’ve got sex hair,” Matsukawa points out, lips pulling up at the corners. “Anything you want to share, Hiro?”

 “What— _this?”_ Hanamaki swipes a quick hand through his (actually _yes_ , very disheveled) hair and purses his lips. “Trust me, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

“Oh really?” Matsukwa hums, a definite challenge residing behind that half-lidded gaze of his that makes Hanamaki immediately regret his choice of innuendo.

“That is—I mean—I slept through my alarm,” Hanamaki stumbles, truly hoping that the heat he can feel rising on his cheeks will not be outwardly visible. (Though deep down he knows that isn’t a possibility in any universe, damn genetics and pale complexions everywhere.) He clears his throat and tries to keep his eye contact stable. “I may have drank a little too much last night.”

He’d worked double hours the day before, a Saturday, so that meant that the closing shift at the gallery was busier than usual and his 8 AM blackwork session at the shop was about two hours too early for his lazy-weekend disposition. So really, ‘ _may have’_ was the active phrasing for ‘ _definitely did_.’

Matsukawa’s brows lift, challenge turning to curiosity. “You had a date?” There’s something uncomfortably satisfying about the jealous murmur in his deep voice.

But Hanamaki’s head shakes on instinct before he can try to play that to his advantage. “No,” he mutters, eyes shifting to the side. “No, I was with—”

“If you say the idiot fiancés I’ll know you’re lying.” That smug tone is back now in all its unfortunate full force. “Because _I_ was out with them last night.”

Hanamaki’s brows furrow, annoyed not at the lack of invitation but at the way Matsukawa’s mouth curls at how he’d been so easily caught.

“ _Fine_. I drank in my apartment by myself,” Hanamaki huffs, reaching out towards his mug. “Because I am an adult and I can make adult decisions and do adult things, regardless of your judgment thank you very much.”

“I’m not judging you, Hiro,” Matsukawa says through sharp, glinting teeth. His smile has widened to the point that Hanamaki can’t look away even if he wanted to.

For lack of anything better to say (because his personal grave-digging shovel has already seen way too much action this early in the morning) Hanamaki takes a tentative sip of his drink. Black with two sugars, sweet but with an edge of bitterness; perfect.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he says after another swallow.

“You’re welcome,” Matsukawa hums and then, like an afterthought, adds, “I’m sorry about the other night.”

Hanamaki feels his fingers twitch dangerously in their grip on the mug. He’d hoped to at least hold some sort of meaningful, easy conversation before any of _that_ got brought up. Actually, he’d _really_ hoped that it would just never be brought up ever again and they could pretend that _that_ never happened and they could just go back to their non-kissing, non-jacking-off, non-emotionally-compromising _friendship_.

Because that’s what they were, right? _Just friends._

Hanamaki is now quite unsure of whether or not the coffee is an apology or else just a _friendly_ (not romantic, definitely not, _no_ ) gesture. He lowers his gaze to stare down into the blackness.

“You don’t need to be.” He shrugs one shoulder. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“There is. I said things I shouldn’t have,” Matsukawa states firmly, factually. “It was stupid. _I_ was stupid.”

“We’re all stupid sometimes. Everyone’s stupid.” A tiny chuckle escapes Hanamaki’s throat, too strained to be natural. He tries to quell his awkwardness with an eye roll. “It’s human nature.”

In turn, Matsukawa’s own laughter is deep and resonant and entirely natural. “There’s that cynicism I can’t get enough of.”

Hanamaki’s jaw clenches as he mutters out, “I’m just trying to be honest.”

“I never said you weren’t,” Matsukawa offers, tone easing into something tentative. “When did you start feeling like this, Hiro?”

It isn’t that Hanamaki doesn’t appreciate Matsukawa’s concerned gaze, but the whole walking on eggshells thing really sets his teeth on edge.

His brows furrow. “Like what?”

“Like the entire world is out to get you.”

Hanamaki feels all the air in his lungs suck away as any ounce of composure or stoicism he had left shatters, scattering across the table between them.

“Are you sorry because of what we did?” he asks, his voice sounding as breathless as it feels. “I don’t get it.”

“No, I’m not sorry about that.” Matsukawa quirks a thick brow upwards, regarding Hanamaki with a surprisingly cool smirk. “I thought about it in the shower this morning actually. I’m not sorry about _that_ , either.”

His lungs start to work again, pulling in air as his heart rate begins to speed up and his skin burns. “You’re kind of weird, you know,” he gripes, unable to keep a tiny smile from melting across his lips. Curse his body for betraying him and his mind for finding any sliver of humor in this suddenly very _stupid_ conversation.

“I know, maybe that’s what I should be sorry about.” Matsukawa’s smirk shifts into something a bit more genuine alongside the almost endearing amount of color rising on his cheeks. He averts his eyes, lashes thick against his abrupt fluster. “Look, I should have never up and left, I should have never made that decision without talking to you first.”

Hanamaki frowns, realizing immediately where this exchange was initially meant to go. “I don’t know what you’re on about, you _did_ talk to me—”

“The day before I left.” Matsukawa’s eyes flick up, his voice on edge and louder than it had registered all morning, startling Hanamaki into snapping his mouth shut. Matsukawa’s sigh is rough. “Not even a full twenty-four hours, Hiro.”

Hanamaki suddenly finds himself looking anywhere but at Matsukawa. This is _not_ what he’d bargained for out of a coffee date between just friends at ten o-clock on a Sunday.

“It’s been years, none of that matters now,” he replies, trying to be as dismissive as possible. “Besides I’m pretty positive I’m the one who talked you into going in the first place.”

“And I’m the one who helped you set up that shitty online dating profile.” Matsukawa snorts, his tone coming back down to a more familiar, lazy drawl. “We’re all guilty of being enablers at some point, but I should never have left—”

“It’s your life, you can do whatever you want. You never had to get my permission, Issei.” The words fly from Hanamaki’s mouth before he can even hope to stop them. Impulsive was never a trait he would have used to describe himself before and he can feel the embarrassment at that scratching uncomfortably from underneath his skin.

For what it is worth, Matsukawa doesn’t look at all surprised, instead just inclines his head in resigned agreement. “You’re right. But I shouldn’t have left without telling you what I want _in_ my life.”

“Yeah?” Hanamaki grunts out, still coming to terms with the turn this conversation has taken. “And what’s that?”

Matsukawa’s tongue dips over his lower lip, but for once that isn’t what distracts Hanamaki the most.

“You,” Matsukawa says.

This would have been the moment in the movie where the hero leans forward and finally gets that damn ‘true love’s kiss.’ In reality (because Hanamaki, despite everything, is _still_ not lucky in love) this is when the hand holding onto his coffee mug decides to finally give up on him, not unlike the universe itself.

They’ve been sitting there for a little while, so the coffee is not as hot as it could have been, but still it proves to be very uncomfortable as it begins to soak into the fabric of Hanamaki’s shorts.

But honestly, he can’t really bring himself to give a flying fuck.

“Shit, Hiro, are you alright?” Matsukawa is fussing, that much is clear, but for some reason Hanamaki can’t quite make out his worried features through the haze that has decided to settle over his vision.

“Huh?” he manages to choke out before surveying the damage with a little frown.

“Geezus, c’mon—” Weird, Matsukawa almost sounds amused by the whole scene playing out before him. Hanamaki’s frown deepens at the tone. “Let’s go to my place, it’s closer.”

Hanamaki squints, finally finding Matsukawa’s face again. He _is_ smirking, damn him. “Your place?”

“Unless you _want_ to stay in coffee stained clothes the rest of the day, Hiro.”

“Is this another move to get me over to your apartment?”

“Yes, I had the whole thing planned from the start,” Matsukawa snarks, standing and fixing Hanamaki with an unearthly amount of condescension. “Pour your heart out until Takahiro spills coffee all over himself and he’s forced to strip down in your house, I said to myself.”

“Well you don’t have to be a dick about it.” In his ears Hanamaki’s voice sounds dry as a bone, considering the situation at hand, and his tongue appears to be operating at its own free will. “Just say, ‘no Hiro, this is not a ploy to get you naked.’”

“No Hiro, this is not a ploy to get you naked,” Matsukawa repeats, mimicking Hanamaki’s drone.

“Better.” Hanamaki blinks up at him, beginning to actually feel the effects of the spilled coffee. He has to pointedly instruct himself not to grimace as he stands to match the slightly taller man still staring him down. “Still not great, but better.”

Hanamaki lets himself be tugged from the café, not bothering to feel flustered with Matsukawa’s firm and familiar grip on his hand.

* * *

By the time they arrive at Matsukawa’s apartment, Hanamaki’s mind has had time to air itself out and the reality of the proceedings is beginning to set in sending a very hot blush up his neck—the sensation _almost_ comparable to spilling steaming hot coffee on oneself in front of one’s— _well_ , whatever Matsukawa is.

“You don’t have to wash them.” Hanamaki fumbles with the words coming from his mouth. “I can just take them home.”

He is stood in the middle of Matsukawa’s meager kitchen, clutching at the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants he is now wearing (he’d tugged the drawstring tight, but still they were beginning to slip a little on his slimmer hips) and feeling a bit whiplashed, all things considered.

“It’s fine,” Matsukawa says, closing the door to the small laundry unit as it hums to life. “Otherwise I’ll feel guilty.”

The word registers oddly in Hanamaki’s muddled mind. “Guilty?”

“Even if it wasn’t my initial intention,” Matsukawa explains rather carefully as he makes his way to lean against the counter opposite. “It’s my own fault that the coffee got spilled.”

As much as he wants to, Hanamaki can’t exactly dispute that. So instead of arguing further he says, “Did you ever mentally undress me in high school?”

The deer-in-the-headlights look his question garners has Hanamaki’s muscles slackening slightly at the long-overdue victory. Matsukawa swallows visibly, but his voice remains commendably calm. “Where the hell did that come from?”

For a second Hanamaki considers throwing their meddling friends under the bus, but then suddenly he is witnessing the skin of Matsukawa’s neck blooming pink, the color starting to crawl up over his jaw as Hanamaki continues to stare, entirely distracted.

He isn’t sure what kind of stupid impulse starts his feet walking forward, but suddenly he finds himself being carried straight and without falter right into Matsukawa’s chest, fingers grasping at the fabric there and pulling their lips together, bruising.

Someone moans immediately into the contact ( _Matsukawa_ , Hanamaki thinks but can’t be certain) and Hanamaki opens his jaw to allow the press of an eager tongue against his own. It doesn’t take long for Matsukawa to be spurred into action, no amount of hesitation like there might aught to have been, and he’s pushing against Hanamaki’s grip, threading fingers into clipped strawberry-blond and _pulling_.

Hanamaki has to fight against the urge to bite down, huffing out a breath instead when Matsukawa moves his head right where he wants it to be and dips his tongue further inside, teasing along the roof of his mouth, and _oh_ , Hanamaki hadn’t realized how much he’d been craving this until _right now_.

When they come up for breath, Matsukawa panting against the edge of his jaw, Hanamaki can’t fight back that incessant smirk. “I thought this wasn’t your plan.”

“You’re a horrible influence,” Matsukawa mutters, voice just as rough and cutting. “No one told you to make the first move.”

Matsukawa is undoubtedly right and Hanamaki can’t help but feel a bit embarrassed by the entire thing, his hormones raging and conspiring against him like he’s still some stupid, naïve teenager.

“What you said earlier—” he mouths along the plush of Matsukawa’s lower lip. “About what you need in your life—”

“Are we really going to have that conversation right now?” Matsukawa asks, grinding his erection straight into Hanamaki’s own as if to prove his point.

And he _does_ have quite a good point.

The hand in Hanamaki’s hair tightens when he leans in, licking into Matsukawa’s mouth, biting and sucking and making a mess of his lips. It doesn’t take long for Matsukawa’s hips to push back, take control, crowd him against the far counter, grinding shamelessly and with little control.

Air is pushed out of Hanamaki’s lungs and his back bends to accommodate Matsukawa’s presence. He can feel broad palms tracing down the length of his chest, sparking against the metal laced through his hardened nipples, until they come to rest against his hips, playing at the edge of those borrowed, ill-fitting sweatpants.

Hanamaki cracks his eyes open to watch the overhead light glint against Matsukawa’s glasses, obscuring his gaze. He shivers as he thinks about just how _good_ Matsukawa looks; a little more sharpness to his jaw, the piercings, the glow to his skin, and those _goddamn_ _glasses_.

Hands grasp firmly along his hipbones and before Hanamaki can protest Matsukawa has him atop the counter to slot a very prominent hardness between his legs.

“Ah—” Hanamaki can't get anything more out before his lips are being forcefully preoccupied. Matsukawa’s hands move again, traveling up his spine and mapping out the dips of Hanamaki’s back until they come to rest against the sensitive skin of his waist.

Matsukawa presses into him, rolling his hips and driving a startled gasp from them both. They're essentially dry humping in the middle of the kitchen, but Hanamaki doesn't give a shit because when Matsukawa’s mouth finally travels down the crest of his neck and _bites_ he feels it hot and straight down through his dick.

“Fuck this—” he hisses thickly, lips scrabbling at the little stud in Matsukawa's ear. “Bed. _Now_.”

Matsukawa’s teeth pull away from his skin to trail wet kisses up and across his jaw and cheek and lips. “So demanding,” he murmurs, but there is something dark and knowing about the purr of his voice that has Hanamaki freezing. “I thought _you_ were the one who liked to be ordered around.”

Hanamaki’s tongue numbs, bone dry. He pulls back instinctively, but Matsukawa only lets him go so far, grasp dipping to hold steadily onto the swell of Hanamaki’s ass, keeping their bodies flush.

“That was said to you in confidence,” Hanamaki breathes out, trying so desperately to work his mouth into some sort of annoyed smirk. “Don’t you dare use it against me.”

Matsukawa hums, fixing him with an unimpressed look. “I’ll try to restrain myself,” he says evenly, dragging and pulling until Hanamaki has to wrap his legs around Matsukawa’s waist to keep himself from falling when he's lifted easily off the countertop.

When they tumble to the bed, a mess of limbs and wet kisses, a realization hits him oddly and abruptly when his eyes roll back as Matsukawa’s fingers tickle at the skin of his abdomen and he watches warm sunlight seeping out from the half-closed blinds and onto the unmade bed beneath them.

“It’s the middle of the day,” he says.

He can feel Matsukawa’s smirk against his neck. “Do you want to stop?”

Hanamaki should say _yes_. He should stop this right now because Matsukawa has been gone for years, a chunk out of Hanamaki’s life that apparently made him so cynical and bitter even Iwaizumi and Oikawa were starting to grow irritated by it. He should pull back, insist that rekindling their long-lost friendship is more important than this—than _fucking_.

A tongue teases against the lobe of his ear, entirely unfairly, and Hanamaki can’t fight the tremor in his voice when his mind throws all logic out the window. “ _Absolutely fucking not_.”

“Good,” Matsukawa hums and then quickly adds, “Take your shirt off.”

Hanamaki’s not sure it’s actually meant to be a command, more like a simple need for fewer layers of clothing between them, but his cock still twitches at the words.

He sits up on his elbows, pushing further into Matsukawa, and grapples with the hem of his t-shirt before tearing it up over his head a bit frantically. The coolness of the tiny apartment mixed with the heat of the body hovering over him washes Hanamaki’s skin in a powerful shiver.

His easy obedience is rewarded when Matsukawa bends down to run his mouth along a glinting bar in one of Hanamaki’s nipples, teasing it to a peak with his teeth and tongue before moving onto the other.

“Shit.” Hanamaki’s mouth goes slack and the expletive falls out shakily, his entire being slipping drunkenly under Matsukawa’s ministrations.

“What do you want, Hiro?” The timbre of Matsukawa’s words vibrates over a slick piercing, forcing a surprising amount of arousal out of Hanamaki with just a simple question.

“A-anything.” His voice doesn’t even feel his own anymore, his skin itching as if he were starved for one, very precise touch. “ _Everything_.”

“Can you be a bit more specific?”

“ _You_ ,” Hanamaki growls out causing the memory of their earlier conversation to flood his mind and force his slack muscles back into something tense and anxious.

But Matsukawa does not seem to mind, does not seem phased at all. In fact, judging by the way his lips are forming a soft smile over Hanamaki’s huffing chest, he’s _pleased_.

And shit, why did Hanamaki have the innate urge and need to _please_ him so badly?

Matsukawa makes quick work of the few remaining items of clothing still between them and if years had given Hanamaki an acute case of cynicism then they had given Matsukawa something much, _much_ more desirable.

Throughout club in high school all of them had managed to keep up a well-toned, even fairly sculpted physique. But Hanamaki doesn’t ever remember Matsukawa’s abs looking quite like _that_ ever before. Or his thighs, or his— _everything_.

Hanamaki can’t stop himself from staring openly at the bronze skin painted over Matsukawa’s muscles. It was absolutely _glowing_ in the mottled sunlight streaming from the window, contrasting warmly against the porcelain shade of Hanamaki’s own.

Matsukawa is perfectly tan from head-to-toe. _Perfectly_ tan—not a line in sight, and oh—Hanamaki’s eyes travel a bit further south and his mouth starts moving before he can even stop it. “Do a lot of nude sunbathing in Spain, huh Issei?”

Hanamaki’s voice is nearly a breathless squeak as the words traitorously escape his mind. Matsukawa, still standing above him without a shadow of modesty, tugs the sweatpants still clinging to Hanamki’s hips off in one clean motion before throwing them to the floor.

He meets Hanamaki’s wide eyes when he leans forward to cage the other in with a broad palm on either side of his head, dipping their bodies further into the softness of the mattress.

“Nude beaches are all the rage in Europe,” he says and Hanamaki swallows when he feels the slippery wet tip of Matsukawa’s erection moving softly against his thigh. “I’ll take you sometime.”

Hanamaki has to force his tongue into action, biting against the tip of it. “I’ll hold you to that,” he mutters out as the fingers of Matsukawa’s right hand start to trace patterns down his sternum.

He’s not sure he’s that ticklish, but Matsukawa’s touch makes his skin twitch.

“Have I mentioned how _sexy_ these are?” Matsukawa groans out as he runs his palms across the piercings in each of Hanamaki’s straining nipples.

Trying to swallow down a gasp, Hanamaki lets his back arch into the touch. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I-I’ve gathered that much.”

Matsukawa bends to lav his tongue over the sharp dip of Hanamaki’s collarbone, the barest sensation of teeth scraping over his skin sending Hanamaki’s hands flinching at his sides. He reaches up desperately, searching for something to hold onto and latches fingers into the sinew that is apparently Matsukawa’s ass.

Hanamaki’s eyes flash and he squeezes once out of pure desire before loosening his grip to pull his embarrassingly greedy hands back, but the rush of hot air against his neck and _the noise_ that rumbles out of Matsukawa’s throat has his fingers burrowing back into the hard muscle without a second thought of hesitance.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses when Matsukawa pinches at his piercings in retaliation. “ _Issei_ ,” he all but moans.

Matsukawa hums pleasantly against his neck before rising back up to look Hanamaki straight in the eyes. He blinks a few times, observing the flush running over the other’s paler skin and the undivided attention suddenly has Hanamaki’s cock aching even harder than before.

Reaching up with one hand Matsukawa’s weight shifts as his fingers curve around the black arm of his glasses, but Hanamaki is faster, his own hand brushing up across the other’s trembling side before grabbing at his wrist firmly.

“Leave them on,” he demands, voice much firmer than he’d thought possible, all things considered.

Matsukawa stares at him for a moment, expression unreadable behind those dark frames. But after a few quick, uneven beats of Hanamaki’s heart he allows his arm to go limp in Hanamaki’s grasp.

“I learn something new about you everyday, Hiro,” Matsukawa slurs through the very slick smile creeping onto his lips.

“I hope that’s a good thing,” Hanamaki huffs.

“Oh,” Matsukawa practically purrs. “It’s a _very_ good thing.” His smile softens and he twists to place a gentle kiss against Hanamaki's wrist, against the sharp floral ink there. “ _But_ there is a lot that I already know,” he mutters against wet skin, tracing his tongue across a few stray petals before shifting to bend and latch onto the plush of Hanamaki’s lower lip, biting down once, _hard_. “And that is even better.”

The sound that emanates from Hanamaki’s chest cannot be human—certainly he’s never heard it before and still now it sounds far-off and foreign to his ears. His mind hazes over with the way Matsukawa is still caging him in from above, the way his words reverberate against the back of his throat when he speaks.

“If you know so damn much about me—ah—” Hanamaki’s acid words catch when Matsukawa’s hands grab onto his hips, pushing him further into the mattress and brushing against skin so sensitive his voice hitches. “—then would you j-just—”

“Fuck you already?” Matsukawa breathes into the side of his neck and Hanamaki _whines_ , all the tension in his body releasing beneath the powerful hands of the man holding him hostage beneath him.

Matsukawa tilts his head up to look Hanamaki in the eye, his glasses slipping a few centimeters down the bridge of his nose. “You have to tell me what you need,” he says soft but firm, the air around them filtering into something much more serious. “I won’t do anything you don’t want, Hiro.”

Suddenly he’s thinking he should have been a bit more specific earlier when his mind was clearer and he could at least formulate some coherent thoughts. The way Matsukawa is still holding him down, hovering over him, in control, has his mind threatening to go blank altogether.

“I-I need,” he stutters out, trying desperately not to writhe his hips in hopes of letting his painful erection get some sort of friction against the golden skin only inches above him. “I want y-your fingers—” he sucks in a breath when Matsukawa’s short nails bite into the flesh of his hips. “A-and your _cock_.”

With that suddenly Matsukawa releases him, leaning back on his heels and observing him with a smile so soft it’s almost invisible. Hanamaki snaps his mouth shut against a groan at the loss of pressure and touch, trying hard to swallow the dryness out of his throat.

He watches carefully as Matsukawa leans to the side, minding Hanamaki’s legs and trembling hips and doing his level best not to give him any extra contact. His eyes narrow, but Hanamaki can’t find it in himself to be annoyed and he also can’t will his body into moving upwards into the other man if for no other reason than he _knows_ Matsukawa doesn’t want him to.

The other man’s hand rifles through the drawer of his beside table and Hanamaki decides he can at least allow himself a casual ogle of the body still hovering over him, abs taught and obliques stretching with Matsukawa’s slightly twisted position. Hanamaki’s eyes narrow even further than before; that body is entirely fucking _unfair_.

For how long had he been missing out on this—there’s no way Matsukawa was this toned in high school, he would have remembered it for certain, Hanamaki thinks, though as he’d previously (stupidly) confessed, he’d been doing a pretty damn good job trying to forget most of high school. But there was just no way in hell he would have forgotten about an Adonis belt like _that_ —

“Still with me, Hiro?” comes a cool voice in his ear lined with a bit of amusement and Hanamaki blinks.

“Hm?” he mumbles as his vision comes back to Matsukawa’s face, gaze as heavy-lidded as ever, staring down at him. He tries indefinitely hard not to blush. “Sorry. I-I was just— _distracted_.”

The admission is so painfully honest that Hanamaki winces, eyes clenching shut, but before he has a chance to wallow too much there comes the faintest sensation of warmth against his cock and he’s flinching, but it’s too late.

Matsukawa’s lips are already on him.

He gasps out a hiss as those lips place an open-mouthed kiss to the head of his cock and his hand flies up to his mouth, teeth clenching automatically around a knuckle. Matsukawa makes no move to stop him as he observes Hanamaki’s reaction from his leering position, which ends up making Hanamaki bite down even harder.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Matsukawa says, the wet warmth of his words sending a shiver up Hanamaki’s spine. He nods, mutters something unintelligible around his hand, but Matsukawa is already moving on to other, apparently more important things.

The feeling of slick heat wrapping around him has Hanamaki’s teeth clenching around flesh and his other hand scrabbling at something, _anything_ to hold onto—consequently the closest thing seems to be the soft curls that fall over Matsukawa’s forehead as he bends his neck forward to take Hanamaki in further. He murmurs his assent at the minor hair pulling and drags his tongue along a freshly throbbing vein as if to make the point that much clearer.

Hanamaki’s throat opens around a moan and his hand falls away to let the obscene sound echo through the otherwise silent room. He’s _never_ made a noise like that before and he might have been embarrassed by it, but the fingers that travel up his thighs and dig into the flesh of his ass force his mind into a stutter, forgetting about anything other than Matsukawa’s mouth and sharp nails digging into his skin.

He’s pulled in deeper and his mind is trying desperately to work around the logic of how that is even possible at this point when he starts to feel himself tipping. There’s fire churning in his stomach and Hanamaki knows he’s a quivering mess in the other man’s grip, he knows he’s close but it seems so does Matsukawa.

A messy trail of spit and precum follow Matsukawa’s lips as they trail up Hanamaki’s cock until just the head is resting against his tongue. When his head tilts further to take in the sight, Hanamaki has to force his hips not to buck forward into that lewd, inviting heat. So instead he lets loose an uninhibited whine and Matsukawa’s eyes perk up through his glasses to watch the other with a growing smirk.

“That’s not fair.” The words slip out in a breathless hiss, Hanamaki’s voice gracious enough to allow it.

Matsukawa sucks away a bit of wetness and has the audacity to lick his lips clean before responding. “What isn’t?”

Hanamaki bites down a groan. “Your mouth—you’re gonna make me come just from your fucking mouth.”

“Do you want to come?”

It is an entirely loaded question.

And the playful lilt to Matsukawa’s smile proves that the bastard knows it.

Hanamaki feels his lips curl in a weak snarl. “I—” but the rest gets stuck somewhere in his throat and the near-orgasmic haze is starting to clear as Matsukawa continues to stare up at him, completely unabashedly. “I—I _need_ —”

His complete and utter lack of composure is starting to finally get to him and the poignant realization that the man leering at him from between his legs is Matsukawa— _Issei_ —shoots something almost painful through his chest and suddenly he’s feeling very much overwhelmed.

But the worst part is that he thinks he might actually be enjoying the feeling.

“I know—” Matsukawa trails lips up the inside of his twitching thigh. “—exactly what you need.”

He punctuates the surprisingly filthy words with a well-placed bite near the curve of Hanamaki’s hip and just that velvet voice and those teeth send him back towards the edge and haze of a pleasure-place he hasn’t felt in a long while.

In fact, perhaps, a place he hasn’t _ever_ felt before.

When Hanamaki manages to bring his mind back from the cloudy precipice of orgasm and epiphany he tilts his half-lidded gaze to watch lecherously as Matsukawa drips shining lube down his long ( _very_ long) fingers.

Those fingers become immediately teasing as they dip to swirl slick around his entrance, the coldness causing Hanamaki to flinch only for a second before he’s sinking back onto the bed and into the pleasant sensation. He knows his breathing is off, air coming out in little puffs and pants as Matsukawa continues the soft, torturous rhythm he’s set, but he can’t bring himself to care anymore, because this is happening finally and he just wants a little bit more.

But then Matsukawa hesitates, putting the barest amount of pressure against his rim, but not pushing forward like Hanamaki desperately needs him to. “When was the last time—?”

By the way his voice trails off at the end of his very sudden question Hanamaki can tell that Matsukawa hadn’t been planning to stray from whatever script they’d been working with up until now. In fact, as much as his gentle apprehension is pretty damn endearing, Hanamaki is not exactly in the right mood for that.

“What’s with the—sudden concern?” he grunts out, thrusting his hips down in hopes of catching the other off guard, but Matsukawa’s other hand holds steadily to his hip as their eyes lock over a painfully red cock. “Or do you really wanna discuss my torrid past affairs right now?”

It isn’t exactly meant as a jab, but the barely there flinch of Matsukawa’s otherwise neutral features has Hanamaki sucking in a shameful breath. “I-I didn’t mean—look, I’ll tell you if—”

“I know, Hiro,” Matsukawa interrupts, voice impossibly low and hot against the crook of his knee before he pushes forward, plunging a finger all the way into the second knuckle without any further hesitation.

The stretch burns, but it’s good. Even if Matsukawa is nice enough to ask, he doesn’t need to know when the last time Hanamaki had anything but his own fingers inside himself. Just the shuttering moan that crawls out of Hanamaki’s throat should be enough to tell Matsukawa that everything is fine—that he should not hesitate for _anything_ at this point.

It takes a minute for adjustment aided with fluttering, velvet-soft kisses all up and down the sensitive skin of Hanamaki’s trembling inner thighs, but finally a second finger makes an appearance, pushing forward, twisting just right until—

“ _Shit_.” Hanamaki’s back curls into a low arch against the mattress, his hips pushing downward against the prodding of Matsukawa’s fingers inside him and that dizzying, lightning sensation of pleasure coursing on near-painful gooseflesh all the way up his entire body.

Matsukawa hums against his leg, but the sound is more than just approval at Hanamaki’s reaction, it’s low and guttural and when Hanamaki forces his gaze back down he finds the other man’s free hand wrapped around a cock, dark and leaking and somehow straining even harder than his own.

“Condom,” he hisses out the demand on instinct, reaching down frantically to grip the base of his own erection and _squeeze_. It had been a near thing, coming just from the sight of Matsukawa getting off solely on his pleasure, but after all this time he wants more.

He _needs_ more.

Matsukawa rips the condom open with his goddamn teeth, not allowing Hanamaki’s vision to stray from his own as he rolls it languidly down his length.

“Hands off,” he murmurs, pulling away Hanamaki’s white-knuckled fingers from his cock. “Do you think you can do that for me?”

Hanamaki shudders. He is not certain at all that he can, but his mind has since hazed over with the carefully disguised command and the distinct feeling of terrifying emptiness that floods over him when Matsukawa gently removes his fingers.

But he nods anyways.

The smile Matsukawa sets him with as he leans forward, latching onto Hanamaki’s thighs and bending him nearly in half to angle his cock _just right_ nearly sends him over the edge right then and there.

Matsukawa whispers a pleasantly wet kiss over Hanamaki’s lips. “ _Good_ ,” he says before plunging forward and catching Hanamaki’s resulting gasp with a slick tongue and sharp teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you all to know that this story was only supposed to be three chapters long...and now I have fallen into Matsuhana hell and I'm dragging you all along for the ride.
> 
> Also, you guys are killing it with the comments and kudos, you spoil me and I am forever in your debt. Seriously, thank you for the support!


	4. we could waste the night with an old film

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We brought booze, pad-thai, and pastries.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long, overdue update. Here's some pining and secondhand embarrassment to hopefully make up for it.

_“It’s a plane ticket.”_

_The paper, marked for departure in less than twenty-four hours, looked heavy in Matsukawa’s grip, the edges trembling, unsteady._

_Hanamaki stared down at the ticket, unable to do much else. “Yes, that much I’ve gathered,” he said, no amount of snark able to cut through the awkward air forming rapidly between them. “You’re really going?”_

_“I did some serious considering. Like you said, it’s a good opportunity,” Mastukawa answered, those unfortunately true statements threatening to choke Hanamaki with their undercurrent of blame. “A change of scenery.”_

_The last words sounded almost choked as they left Mastukawa’s mouth, but when Hanamaki finally managed to look up there was nothing about his features that betrayed any sort of actual dejection._

_When Hanamaki didn’t answer, Matsukawa offered instead, “Tell me about your date. As handsome in real life as his profile picture?”_

_In an effort not to actually choke, Hanamaki snorted. “Even more so.” His head shook back a forth lazily. “He was an asshole, more cocky than our own Shittykawa.”_

_Matsukawa’s lips forced a grin. “You sound just like Iwaizumi, it’s uncanny.”_

_"You’re changing the subject,” Hanamaki said._

_“Am I?” Matsukawa’s attempt at naïveté did not go over very well. He shrugged at Hanamaki’s scowl. “Honestly it’s not that big of a deal. I’m sure I’ll come home over holidays.”_

_They sat like that for a while, on the floor of Hanamaki’s bedroom, treading in the swill of tension and unspoken words until Matsukawa broke the still by reaching up to tuck the plane ticket back into his jacket pocket._

_“It’ll be different,” whispered Hanamaki, studying the ratty edges of his white club sweats where they’d been scuffed under the heel of his sneakers one too many times. “Without you here, I mean.”_

_"You’ll have more time for your hot dates, Hiro.”_

_Hanamaki felt a stab against his sternum and let out a painful grunt, disguising it fairly unsuccessfully behind a scoff. “I’m calling it now, my love life’s a lost cause,” he muttered out through a stiff jaw._

_“What are you, eighteen going on forty?” Matsukawa joked with something only akin to amusement in his tone. “Don’t have a midlife crisis without me, alright?”_

_If they were anywhere else discussing anything else Hanamaki might have reached over and shoved Matsukawa hard in the direction of the floor. As it was, he couldn’t even bring himself to make eye contact._

_"Alright, I’ll try to keep it at bay.” His voice was lower than even his own ears were used to hearing. “What’s the time difference between Tokyo and Barcelona?”_

_There was a moment of hesitation, of movement from next to him. He could feel Matsukawa’s gaze on him, but Hanamaki couldn’t break his sudden fascination with the tattered, broken threads of white he was twisting in his fingers._

_"I’ll be seven hours behind. Good thing you’re a night owl,” Matsukawa answered after several more languid seconds, the words forced from his tongue._

_"We’ll make it work.” Hanamaki nodded, mostly to himself, before slanting his gaze to catch the tail end of a deep frown wrinkling Matsukawa’s handsome features. His teeth caught against his tongue before he added in haste, “Right?”_

_Matsukawa’s broad palm slipped down across Hanamaki’s knee, causing a flinch that radiated between the both of them._

_He was staring at Hanamaki’s lips when he promised, “Of course we will.”_

* * *

Hanamaki shrugs into a suit jacket that is too tight in the shoulders, but apparently just the right shade of charcoal for whatever aesthetic he along with the other two men staring back at him in the three-way mirror are trying to achieve.

“He knows me too well,” he mutters, almost to himself as he tugs at the jacket’s lapels and worries his fingers at a slick button. “ _Way_ too well.”

“ _Makki_ ,” Oikawa groans, flopping back on a leather seat, but keeping his long legs awkwardly extended to avoid unnecessary creasing. “Why do you insist on being so self-sabotaging?”

Hanamaki frowns, turning finally to observe both Oikawa and Iwaizumi through his own vision instead of the mirror’s reflection. “Since when have you two become the leading experts on my love life?”

“Think of us as your counselors,” Oikawa says with a prim smile.

Hanamaki’s frown turns into more of a grimace. “That better include confidentiality.”

“Of course!” Oikawa squawks as if he has every reason to be seriously offended. “What do you take us for, _gossips?_ ”

“Yes, I do- _oh no_ , don’t you roll your eyes at _me_ , Iwaizumi Hajime.” Hanamaki jabs a finger towards Iwaizumi’s arched expression. “You’ve hitched yourself to his wagon, now you’ve got to deal with the consequences.”

Iwaizumi manages to keep his composure better than his partner, fixing Hanamaki with an even stare. “I am not now, nor have I ever been a gossip.”

It would’ve been impossible to keep the smirk from his face, even if he were trying. But Hanamaki is definitely not trying, all current things considered. Oh no, Iwaizumi is _not_ going to get away scot-free this time. “Remember that rumor back in high school?” he drawls. “The one about Oikawa and the club room and a certain jersey—”

The collar of his once-crisp suit jacket is grabbed swiftly in a powerful grip he could never quite defeat when they were still teenagers (and Hanamaki is—in this moment more than ever—sadly aware that that defeat would still stand even now.) “Shut the fuck up, Takahiro!” Iwaizumi growls with more contempt than Hanamaki has seen in quite sometime, excluding any spats with his significant other, of course.

Oikawa’s eyes are wide, saucers of ignorant shock. “Iwa-chan?”

“Just making a point, no need for violence,” Hanamaki says around a chuckle, working on peeling away Iwaizumi’s clenched fingers as the man finds momentary distraction in his husband-to-be. “Don’t want to rip this nice, expensive suit, right _Iwa-chan?_ ”

“Well now you know how it feels to be bullied by this brute,” Oikawa sniffs as Iwaizumi finally releases him with a nod of apology. “Maybe next time you won’t laugh—”

“No, I’ll definitely still laugh, Oikawa,” Hanamaki deadpans, earning him a much appreciated snort from a still slightly red-in-the-face Iwaizumi.

Ah yes, all was right with the world once more.

“Rude!” Oikawa squeaks through a huff. “I thought we were here to talk about you and Mattsun.”

Hanamaki gestures down at the clothing still sticking to his frame awkwardly. “We’re here to try on monkey suits for the wedding of the century.”

Oikawa pouts at him, but there’s something genuinely serious about his gaze. “I know it’s your new look, Makki, but you don’t have to be cynical about _everything_.”

Hanamaki forces a scowl back at him, tightening his fists at his sides to hide their sudden trembling. “Why is it that everyone in this whole goddamn city seems to think I’m a fucking _cynic_?”

“You’re a little glass half-empty,” Iwaizumi says, with a barely apologetic frown. “Especially since Matsukawa moved back.”

“T-that has nothing to do with anything,” Hanamaki grunts out around an odd stutter.

Oikawa blinks. “I don’t get it. He confessed to you, right?”

“I wouldn’t call it a confession.”

“Close enough!” As if in defeat, Oikawa throws his arms in the air. “What more could you want, Makki?”

“I don’t want _more_.” (Yes he does, who is he kidding, he wants _everything_.) “It’s just— I don’t really know what this all _means_.”

Not a _total_ lie at least.

“It means he _likes_ _you!_ ” Oikawa sing songs.

“For once I’ll agree with Trashkawa over there,“ Iwaizumi grunts, pointedly ignoring the half-elated half-offended squawk at his words. “Don’t over-think it.”

“Look who’s talking,” Hanamaki mumbles.

“My theory is that Mattsun just wants to take it slow, do things properly.” Oikawa’s voice has softened a bit, an edge of insight sifting through. “He’s always seemed like a very traditional kind of person.”

Hanamaki cannot, for the life of him, stand to buy it. (Or maybe it’s that cynicism everyone keeps harping on?)

“I was nearly scalded by hot coffee after he told me he _needs me in his life_ —” he spits out, feeling the back of his neck heating at just the thought. “—and then he fucked me into his mattress. Is that what you mean by tradit—”

“Hey, sorry I’m late,“ a low voice says from somewhere behind him. It’s thick like molasses, but already Hanamaki can picture the smirk curling at the speaker’s all-too-familiar lips. “Hope I didn’t miss anything important.”

Oikawa’s eyes are larger than they’ve ever been before as they meet Hanamaki’s own. He begs, pleads with the floor below his feet to just open up already and swallow him whole. Oikawa continues to stare at him, as if searching for a reaction he is never going to get because Hanamaki Takahiro is, henceforth and for all intents and purposes, a dead man walking.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi says. Of course he does, of course he’s the one to break the ice because apparently Oikawa and Hanamaki have turned into a pair of gaping fish out of water.

Matsukawa nods another greeting, those lips curving only for a second longer before his features lay neutral once more. Hanamaki thinks maybe he manages to nod back, but he can’t be sure, considering his current state.

But then there’s a hand curling around his arm, fingers contemplating the fabric of the ill-fitting suit jacket, and Matsukawa’s face very near his own. It is wholly unfair, aught to be _illegal_ the way he leans into Hanamaki like it’s nothing. Like it’s not anywhere remotely similar to their last (very _private_ ) encounter.

"This one’s nice,” he remarks, voice even and soft as ever. He is still regarding the suit, but Hanamaki knows that the words hold something deeper than that.

He swallows and forces himself _not_ to act like a goddamn thirteen year old as the scent of Matsukawa’s musky cologne penetrates his breath at their close proximity. “Yeah, it’s okay,” he agrees with a hint of pride blooming in his chest at the steadiness of his voice.

This is so stupid. Matsukawa hadn’t heard a thing. Of course he hadn’t, Hanamaki had caught his tongue well in time—

Matsukawa gives another hum of approval, squeezes Hanamaki’s arm just before releasing to move in the direction of their heavily scoured rack of suits, past a still gaping Oikawa and much-too-smug Iwaizumi.

Hanamaki opens his mouth in order to break the remaining tension with a well-aimed joke in the couple’s direction, but Matsukawa clears his throat and interrupts Hanamaki’s thoughts with a very knowing look cast over his broad shoulder—and oh, if Hanamaki thought he was dead _before_ —

“Yes, I like it a lot actually,” Matsukawa drawls, each syllable falling off his tongue another nail in Hanamaki’s coffin. “Very _traditional_.”

He doesn’t ever hear Oikawa’s obnoxious peal of laughter or Iwaizumi’s appreciative snort through the piercing ringing in his ears. The only thing he can manage to comprehend is Matsukawa’s soft smile of near (but not quite) apology.

* * *

 

They don’t talk about it again, don’t bring it up the rest of the morning in fact. Not that they were really talking about it in the first place. Actually there was simply nothing to talk about anyways.

It was _just sex_ after all.

Still when Hanamaki arrives home with nothing to do, no last minute shifts at the gallery, no new pieces to mock up, no _nothing_ , all he can do is stare down at his phone. At one particular contact.

_Matsukawa Issei._

He should call really, call and explain that most of the details had been left up to the imagination of their meddling friends and that really, in the end, all of this was their fault in the first place, wasn’t it? Maybe they had some right to these privy details, being his counselors after all—

Hanamaki shakes his head back and forth, squeezing his eyes shut and trying desperately to banish the little voice inside his mind that was suddenly starting to sound a lot like one Oikawa Tooru.

 _When had it gotten this bad?_ He twists the question on his tongue, dragging his body down onto the couch, exhausted from a morning spent appeasing his friends and trying to dodge every look Matsukawa sent his way, conspiring or not.

They are just friends. Who have sex. Who haven’t spoken in years. Who keep photo albums from high school. Who apparently need each other. Who hold regrets and misplaced guilt and—

Hanamaki’s fingers dig into his hair, squeezing at the roots just to feel the satisfying pull of it. He burrows down further into the couch cushions, looking for solace or perhaps answers but only managing to find a bit of restless sleep.

* * *

The few hours of rest he manages to find are filled with plush lips and rough fingers and images that boarder so heavily on the edge between memory and wet-dream that when a knock rings out sharply through Hanamaki’s subconscious he bolts awake with a mortifying flush dampening his skin and the unwelcome sensation of arousal between his legs.

He’s not entirely sure who would be calling on him at six o’clock on a Friday evening, but the knot of dread that has been steadily snowballing deep in his gut since the early morning shoots him an unfortunate feeling that he knows exactly who it is knocking progressively louder and more irritatingly against his front door.

Hanamaki hopes to high hell that his gut is heartily wrong.

When he flicks the locks and cracks open the door he audibly and vehemently curses his intuition, but before he can manage to slam it closed in those two familiar faces an imposing foot swiftly blocks the door.

Iwaizumi opens his mouth, probably to apologize for the intrusion like the better-half of the couple that he is, but Hanamaki beats him to it with a half-asleep glare. “Didn’t you read the sign downstairs?” he mutters even as Iwaizumi is slowly but surely pushing the door open further with just the strength of his _one_ _goddamn leg._ “This is a private residence, no soliciting.”

“Makki, rude!” the not-better-half croons. “You’re supposed to be overjoyed that your best friends are making an entirely spontaneous visit!”

He highly ( _highly_ ) doubts anything about this is spontaneous.

“I think I had my fill of you considering we spent just over four hours this morning getting pricked with pins and fondled by that crotchety old tailor.” Hanamaki’s look can’t be more flat as he tries to adjust himself in his loose fitting sweats, furtively behind the door.

“We brought booze, pad-thai, and pastries.”

On impulse Hanamaki slides to the right opening the previously blocked doorway with a pointed look thrown towards Oikawa. “See, now _that_ should have been your opening line.”

Oikawa, through all his petulance, manages to meet Hanamaki’s snark with a very dark, devious look of his own after Iwaizumi enters the apartment. “We also brought you another gift,” he simpers, voice just barely a whisper as he leans into Hanamaki’s personal space.

He moves away too fast for Hanamaki to think of a snide enough remark to throw back and suddenly he’s faced with Matsukawa leaning against the wall just behind where Oikawa had been standing a second before.

If he had any ounce of control over his tongue at the moment, Hanamaki might have accentuated the scene with a very begrudging, _touché_.

Instead, his voice just hisses a little sadly at the back of his throat as he manages to mutter out, “Spontaneous my ass.”

“What was that?” Matsukawa wonders, still not having crossed the threshold, but standing at his full height now and observing Hanamaki carefully from behind those glasses.

Hanamaki shakes his head, stupidly flustered over absolutely nothing other than another person’s presence. “N-nothing.”

“Is this okay?” Matsukawa asks, graciously skipping over any acknowledgement of the slight blush attacking Hanamaki’s neck at the too-familiar words. “I tried to get him to call ahead.”

“It’s fine,” Hanamaki lies and then guiltily tacks on, “I wasn’t busy or anything.”

Matsukawa pretends like he believes him and shrugs. “At least now when you drink in your apartment tonight, it won’t be alone.”

“Ha ha, you know me _so_ _well_ , Issei,” Hanamaki bites back with his best smirk. But the sad (and scary and a bit sexually charged) reality is that he really, really does.

They make their way into the kitchen then where Iwaizumi is already clicking off bottle caps with the opener on his keys and Oikawa is busy flitting around his cabinets looking for utensils and plates.

“Is _everything_ you own plastic?” Oikawa huffs, staring into a series of shelves with hands on his hips.

Hanamaki, for the heartbeat that it takes for the thought to pop into his mind, forgets of the man standing at his shoulder. “I’ve got silicone in the bedroom if that’s what you’re after,” he drawls a self-satisfied smirk crawling across his lips when Oikawa spins to shoot him the reaction he’d been hoping for.

Only his pink cheeks are not accompanied by a scandalized gasp or a stuttering reprimand, but rather by wide eyes and utter, clearly-defined shock.

_Holy shit, did he just say that out loud—?_

"Makki!” comes Oikawa’s gasp much-too-late, but at least he’s trying. “Such a dirty mind!”

For what it’s worth, Iwaizumi only stares at him like he’s insane for another two seconds before he goes back to wrangling beer bottles (and boy is Hanamaki glad of the man’s foresight to bring alcohol along on this ‘spontaneous’ drop-in) still pretending like their little blind-date charade hadn’t been a disaster waiting to happen since the beginning.

Hanamaki can’t move. He simultaneously needs and dreads finding Matsukawa’s reaction to that little slip-of-the-tongue quip, but he can’t move a single muscle.

So instead he watches Oikawa’s gaze flick presumably to Matsukawa’s, but it’s hard to glean much because Oikawa is still blushing furiously and now Hanamaki knows for sure that it is out of nothing other than secondhand embarrassment this time around. Unfortunately for him.

It’s funny at the same time though, because he might’ve made the same joke back in high school; neither he nor Matsukawa had ever been particularly shy about such things, even back then. But now, with everything that’s happened between them in the last month—

“I’ve always preferred glass myself.”

And for the second time that day Hanamaki feels as though someone has just reached out and slapped him sharply across the face.

Iwaizumi grants Matsukawa a deep chuckle as he passes by, bottle necks clutched between his fingers, and into the adjacent living room. Out of the corner of his eye Hanamaki thinks he can see a set of red-tipped ears next to him, but a moment later Matsukawa turns on his heel, his words still lingering heavily in the air, and follows Iwaizumi out.

It takes Hanamaki less than a second to close the gap between he and Oikawa, forcing the marginally taller man backwards until his hips slam against the countertop.

“What the fuck is happening?”

Oikawa’s eyes are round saucers. Their noses are practically touching so when he shifts to look Hanamaki straight on he nearly goes cross-eyed in the process. “Makki, I didn’t think—”

“Why did you bring him here?” Hanamaki hisses, though the venom is admittedly weak and mostly fueled by mortification. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Oikawa’s gaze shifts over Hanamaki’s shoulder, the air between them filling with a nonchalance neither can particularly trust. “He’s just as nervous as you, Makki.”

“I’m not nervous!” Hanamaki barks, stepping back only so he can jab a long finger in the other’s not-so-innocent face. “I’m fucking pissed off. You and Iwaizumi think you can just come in here and throw us together and everything will work out perfectly because I had a little unrequited crush in high school?”

“Unrequited?” Oikawa blinks widely. “Do you really believe that?”

“Look, this isn’t the fucking ‘Iwa-chan/Shittykawa Show.’” Hanamaki knows he’s grasping at straws, but he can’t stop now. His teeth ache with the force at which they’re grinding. “Most relationships don’t work out like that.”

Oikawa’s eyes have narrowed and a frown is forming on his face, frustration creasing through his forehead, unbecoming. “Makki, would you listen to me for a second—”

“Sex is one thing, but I’d rather stop making a giant ass out of myself in front of Matsukawa every single time you decide to force us together in the same room—”

“Takahiro!” Oikawa says and it rocks through Hanamaki like a shout, but his voice is calm, quiet, and lethal. It’s a tone he hasn’t heard since their club days and the way Oikawa’s features have shaded over has Hanamaki’s mouth snapping shut even before he is ordered sharply to ‘ _shut up_.’

“You think this has always been one sided,” Oikawa starts, that familiar edge still clinging to his words and it forces Hanamaki’s body another step backwards. “That now that Mattsun’s back all he’s doing is getting that fling he passed up in high school, but you’re wrong.” Oikawa pauses to study him, looking down his pointed nose. “He’s trying to make things right and you’re too caught up in your own head to see that.”

A flood of responses and questions fill Hanamaki’s mind, welling on his tongue and aching in his throat. He acts on none of them, instead giving Oikawa a nod and finally backing away fully to help him with the rest of the take-out.

Together, a few moments later, they find Iwaizumi traitorously sitting in the middle of the largest couch, with Matsukawa already making himself comfortable on the much smaller loveseat. Hanamaki has half a mind to drag Iwaizumi back into the kitchen for a reaming of his own, but considering how it had just turned out with Oikawa and then the bottle of beer that gets thrust graciously into his hand, Hanamaki manages to hold back his burning annoyance in favor of taking a gentle seat next to Matsukawa.

As Oikawa sprawls out his long legs on the couch and curls into Iwaizumi’s side Hanamaki and Matsukawa tuck into their meal, silent and not bothering to acknowledge the few times their elbows bump or when Hanamaki almost accidentally (if not a teeny-tiny bit on purpose) takes a drink from Matsukawa’s bottle instead of his own.

Hanamaki definitely does _not_ acknowledge the heat he feels crawling up his arm when Matsukawa (definitely on purpose) brushes the back of his hand against the black roses creeping across his skin. A touch that is all-too familiar and charged with something he doesn’t need Oikawa and Iwaizumi to know about just yet, _if ever_.

Hanamaki narrows his eyes at them as they sprawl even further across his couch, but much to his disappointment neither seem to notice.

He thinks about what Oikawa said in the kitchen, about Matsukawa trying to make things right, about being too much in his own head. Perhaps, in a small probably meaningless way there might be some merit to it. (Damned if he would ever admit that to Oikawa, of course). He thinks about the things that Matsukawa has said to him over the last few weeks and decides, rather abruptly, to just stop thinking altogether.

They are nearly finished with their meal, swapping a few words or salty comments over the din of crappy evening programming on Hanamaki’s boxy television when Oikawa practically uses Iwaizumi as a springboard to jump off the couch and run towards a bookshelf on the other side of the room with a squawk and a little, awkward stumble.

“What?” Hanamaki squawks back, thrown for a loop even considering it is Oikawa after all.

Iwaizumi too seems a bit confused (which Hanamaki decides is a good thing, considering how in cahoots those two have been lately) and throws his fiancé a rather powerful scowl, rubbing at his stomach as the three of them regard Oikawa’s waggling fingers as he excitedly kneels down to pluck something small and square from the bottom shelf that Hanamaki himself doesn’t even remember the contents of.

When he turns around though with a victorious smile pulling his lips wider than usual Hanamaki feels his stomach drop.

“I can’t believe you still have this!” Oikawa brandishes the little DVD case with the marker scribbled words _Interhigh_ on the cover as he makes his way back towards them, making a bee-line for the television, and Hanamaki is not the only one to let out a wary groan at the sight. He can’t believe he still has it either.

“Shittykawa, how many times have you watched those damn matches?” Iwaizumi growls, crossing his arms like a reprimanding parent. “Why would you ever want to waste another night on them?”

“Color me nostalgic, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa replies, beaming at him with a little flutter of thick lashes. Hanamaki is already rolling his eyes because he knows that’s it, that’s all it will take to get Iwaizumi to cave because they aren’t teenagers any longer and it’s not three o’clock in the morning on a school night.

He hears a little simper from Oikawa as his DVD player whirs to life and Hanamaki lets go of a rough sigh. “We are not seriously watching that, are we?” he grumbles, a warning edge in his voice. “Oikawa—”

But before he can continue, Oikawa turns on him in the middle of bouncing back on the couch with a look of knowing fire lighting up his coffee-brown irises. Hanamaki swallows at the sight and thinks that perhaps he really should have cornered Iwaizumi in the kitchen instead.

“Yes, we are,” Oikawa announces. “Don’t worry I’ll zoom through the boring matches.”

Hanamaki is certain that that doesn’t actually make him feel any better, but then a hand on his knee makes him startle back down to something close to reality and he turns to face Matsukawa with a look that most definitely boarders on _horrified_.

Matsukawa looks like he’s trying to hold back a laugh and manages to do so properly as he asks in place of it, “Want another?”

There are many things that Hanamaki _wants another_ of when it comes to the man now rubbing his thumb in unconscious circles against the inside of his knee. He does not dare say any of these things out loud for fear that Matsukawa may actually act on them and also, perhaps more particularly, the fact that Oikawa is leering at him from just over Matsukawa’s shoulder.

So instead he squeaks out a “yes, thanks” through heavily pursed lips and as soon as Matsukawa’s frame has sauntered back into the kitchen Hanamaki is leaning forward and clenching his fists into the seat cushion just to restrain himself from grabbing a hold of Oikawa’s annoyingly long neck.

“This is ridiculous,” he hisses against a tight line of teeth. “What are you trying to prove?”

Oikawa leans forward as well, invading Hanamaki’s space like it’s the only natural thing to do. His smile is slick and sickening and the fact that Iwaizumi is currently pretending to ignore them both has Hanamaki’s insides contracting.

“I’m going to show you all the stuff you apparently missed back in high school, Oh Dense One,” Oikawa purrs, the horrible nickname rolling off his tongue much too easily.

Hanamaki has a burning, very indecent retort bubbling in his mouth, but he’s forced to swallow it back down when Matsukawa abruptly returns with two frosty bottles, a plate of profiteroles, and a scarily knowing smirk.

For a few moments Hanamaki fumes, careful to stew in his mind’s eye and imagine what he is going to do to get back at Oikawa for this. Damn him for _being_ right, _knowing_ he’s right, and then having to go and prove it to everyone and their mother _anyways_.

The screen before them flickers to life then with a flash of white and turquoise. Oikawa does as promised and fast-forwards through both sets against Oomisaki until inky black and orange vies for the camera’s attentions and he lets it play on from there.

They watch in silence as the two teams huddle together for a last word of encouragement or strategy. The captain version of Oikawa stands tall before his teammates, hands on hips more narrow then than now, and when he speaks words that cannot be picked up by the camera’s microphone the atmosphere around them changes drastically. The air of staunch intensity is palpable even years later through the recording. Hanamaki feels Matsukawa shift next to him, a sure sign that he’s come to the same conclusion.

With that thought Hanamaki remembers that he’s supposed to be noticing things and he can feel annoying prickles on the side of his face where Oikawa casts what are supposed to be casual glances at him every few seconds to gage his (still non-existent) reactions.

Hell, he doesn’t even know what he’s looking for, but the tightness in his chest only grows as the tiny images of themselves on the screen turn to find their starting positions on the court.

Then he sees it.

It's almost insignificant, barely noticeable, but there just the same. A tiny, lingering touch of a large, familiar hand on his back. His own hands stuffed embarrassingly in the sides of his shorts and an affectionate glance sideways at him, lips pulling into something not only amused, but fond.

They are small things. The slap on his thigh just after the first whistle blows. A shout of encouragement from the sidelines. The brush of shoulders when positions are shifting.

They are so small, so infinitesimal, that not even Hanamaki had noticed them in real time. Even now, he can barely accept that what he is seeing is real and not something he’s exaggerating inside his own mind.

It can’t be. Oikawa glances over again and this time his smile is not smug, but soft and genuine. It just can’t be.

Matsukawa’s knee nudges against his own as they take the first set on the screen easily and Hanamaki thinks that maybe he’s been missing things, a lot of things, for much longer than just the past month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut this time, but just you wait...


	5. we could be beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Go out with me,” he says, like it’s nothing._

_“What? Did he want you to call him Daddy or something?”_

_How their first over-seas video chat had ever fallen across the topic of Hanamaki’s recent (and admittedly quite entertaining) tumble into the university hook-up scene he would never know. But, since they were there now, and Matsukawa was a safe 6,467 miles away and Hanamaki was feeling especially mouthy (not at all thanks to the six pack dwindling down to a three pack underneath his desk) he decided that maybe dishing details would be okay for once._

_"No!” he snickered behind the rim of his beer. “No, none of that shit.” He took a sip, swallowed, blinked at Matsukawa’s surprisingly intent eyes through the screen. “He just—he wanted to dominate me a little and I let him.” He took a breath, remembering not only the sex, but also the fact that he’d never divulged anything like this with anyone, ever. “And I kind of—got off on it.”_

_If Hanamaki had been expecting a gasp of horror or words of mortification at the admittance he was thankfully mistaken._

_“Kind of?” Matsukawa’s thick brows rose with his obvious amusement. “How does that work?”_

_Hanamaki hid his sigh of relief behind a harsh chuckle. “Oh fuck off.” He raised a middle finger to the camera just for old time’s sake. “You always wanted details, now you got details. Happy?”_

_“Those weren’t exactly details, Hiro. More like big picture headline,” Matsukawa drawled, taking a sip of whatever was swirling around in his own cup. He was still his usual picture of indifference when he added, “And you gave away the ending.”_

_Hanamaki felt his face flush for some reason, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t the alcohol. “Sorry to disappoint.”_

_“You didn’t disappoint.” Matsukawa’s gaze averted to the corner of the screen liked he’d been spooked. “Look, honestly I shouldn’t have even asked, it’s none of my business. It never was.”_

_“No, it’s fine. It is, really.” Hanamaki coaxed the other’s eyes back to his own with a cutting smirk. “So like, does that make me kinky or something?”_

_A deep laugh left Matsukawa’s lungs and Hanamaki swore he could actually feel its vibrations through their internet connection. “Everyone’s a little kinky, Hiro,” he said. “Now you just know more of where your personal kinks might lie.”_

_Hanamaki swallowed the nothingness on his tongue as the reality of their conversation came soberingly back to him. “Yeah, I guess so.”_

_"So are you going to see him again?”_

_The question made Hanamaki jerk in his seat, raising his head back up when he realized he’d been the one to break their eye-contact this time around._

_He let out a little chuckle that wasn’t very convincing, so to make up for it Hanamaki decided that this was Matsukawa for fuck’s sake and, as it was, he’d practically laid all the cards on the table already anyways. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he rolled his eyes high to try and kill his sudden, all-encompassing blush. “He took me over his knee like some overgrown child and spanked my ass raw. I don’t think I could face him out in public ever again.”_

_Even though the words had spilled off his tongue with ease they felt exponentially heavier now hanging in the air around him._

_Matsukawa fixed him with a weighty look, but even after all the mortifying bullshit that had come out of Hanamaki’s mouth he still didn’t break. “But you liked it?”_

_Hanamaki swallowed thickly, but nodded. “Well, yeah.”_

_"You shouldn’t be embarrassed about what you like in bed, Hiro.”_

_The words struck him hard in the sternum, nearly knocking the breath out of his lungs and creating a heavy tension through muscles that threatened to collapse at any given moment. What had given him the stupid inclination that this conversation would be a good idea?_

_"It’s not—I’m not embarrassed exactly.” At least it wasn’t a total lie. “I just don’t think I’d want to see him again anyways. He wasn’t the one.”_

_Matsukawa’s head bobbed in understanding, but still he countered, “You know that from just one date?”_

_"Yes, and a really good lay,” Hanamaki shot back, defensive for no good reason other than wanting to divert the conversation away from anything actually meaningful. “He just wasn’t my type. It was fun, but just a fling. An experiment, I guess.”_

_Matsukawa fit him with an unreadable look and sipped his drink again like he was mulling something over in that steel-walled mind of his. Hanamaki just hoped his diverting wasn’t too abrupt and obvious._

_But then Matsukawa cracked with a curve of his lips. “A submissive sexual awakening? Erotic self-discovery?”_

_Ah, there it was. Finally some teasing to break up whatever seriousness had been built up across their occasionally staticky connection._

_"Shut up, Issei,” Hanamaki grunted, but smiled easily just the same._

_"Alright, alright.” He was granted a soft grin in return and the ache between Hanamaki’s shoulder blades began to subside._

_He breathed out, not quite a sigh, through the space of comfortable silence left between them. When Hanamaki was ready he said, “Issei?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“I miss you.”_

_Matsukawa eyed him, still neutral, but Hanamaki saw the warmth behind that half-lidded gaze because he knew just what to look for. “Yeah, Hiro,” he said, “I miss you too.”_

* * *

It takes a few weeks, but Hanamaki slowly allows himself to become comfortable around Matsukawa again. Just like the old days. Only now they sometimes fuck on the kitchen counter.

But still, progress is being made and he’s proud of that.

“You can be very self-deprecating,” Matsukawa says to him, out-of-the-blue one day while they are busy browsing the produce section at the grocer down the street from Hanamaki’s complex.

“Self-deprecating?” The phrase doesn’t exactly roll off his tongue when Hanamaki turns to him with an incredulous scowl. “I am not self-deprecating. I have great self-esteem, I’m fuckin’ awesome and I know it.”

They’ve been walking around the store now for a good half-hour, Hanamaki picking up things he thinks he needs and Matsukawa trailing behind making off-handed comments about soup stocks and the dying art of the catchy cereal slogan. It was the only time they’d managed to see each other in the past two weeks, their schedules never quite aligning, and Hanamaki’s desperate need for real food in his pantry and Matsukawa’s perpetually unfulfilled lunch hour was apparently the best they could do.

Hanamaki doesn’t really mind. It actually feels nice, if not a bit domestic, to have some company for a change. But this— _self-deprecating, really?_

He passes up some not-so-great zucchinis for a bell-pepper, brushing past Matsukawa with an over-dramatic huff. “Gross, Issei, you sound like Oikawa.”

“I’m actually _not_ trying to offend you,” Matsukawa says, handing Hanamaki a produce bag. “I’m trying to get you to stop being so hard on yourself and just be happy for once.”

“I am perfectly happy, thank you very much.” He tries to sound convincing, but fails miserably.

“You used to be a lot more confident.”

Now Hanamaki turns to him with real incredulity and just a touch of panic. “Did Oikawa put you up to this?” he bites out. “Or was it Iwaizumi this time?”

“No one put me up to this, Hiro,” Matsukawa answers calmly, staring him down with a look that feels practiced. “I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

Hanamaki thinks about the time he sprained his ankle in their second year of high school and the look Matsukawa had given him then; a half-lidded glance filled with inconceivable concern over something as stupid as a little sprained ankle.

“I’m fine. Look, not everyone can be as cocksure as you.” Hanamaki frowns when he hears it. “And get your mind out of the gutter, you know that’s not what I mean, Issei.”

For what it’s worth, Matsukawa seems to listen, or more likely never meant to take it that way in the first place. Instead his head angles to the side, uncertain. “Cocksure, really?”

Hanamaki hesitates, opening and closing his mouth a few times to get the words right in his head. “I’ve always been a little jealous of you, I guess. And where is all this coming from, anyways?”

“Jealous?” Matsukawa asks in favor of answering, giving him the same head-tilt as a second before. Hanamaki nearly blanches at the cuteness of it.

“You—you’ve always been confident.” He moves on past the vegetables now, making his way towards a display of plums he doesn’t need. “Like _naturally_ confident. You don’t give a shit what other people think—”

Matsukawa’s throat clears around a chuckle that Hanamaki chooses to ignore. “I can assure you I do give some shits about what other people think, Hiro.”

“Okay, maybe some. But like in high school you used to do and say whatever—and you used to walk around the club room fucking buck-ass naked!” He says this last part a little too loudly and it earns him a scowl from the middle-aged couple perusing leeks from across the way. He gives them a meager, flushing nod before continuing on, softer now. “And I mean, I guess I was sort of an asshole too, but you just had this way of doing things.” He dips his head towards Matsukawa to finally meet the other’s curious gaze. “You were a charming asshole.”

“A charming asshole,” Matsukawa mimics, a thick brow quirking as he watches Hanamaki sputter for the next tatters of explanation.

It takes a moment for Hanamaki to fully commit, but he does. “Yeah,” he nods. “I know it doesn’t sound like it, but that’s supposed to be a complement, Issei.”

He isn’t sure how, but this conversation has taken quite a few odd turns and they hadn’t even made it to the butcher counter yet.

And then Matsukawa says, “You know, maybe I used to walk around in varying degrees of undress because I was trying to get a very dense person’s attention.”

It's unfortunate how clearly Oikawa’s voice rings out in his mind. _Oh Dense One_. Hanamaki swallows against an involuntary whine and then turns from the plums to Matsukawa with a glassy expression. “Huh?”

In return Matsukawa gives him a gentle smile. “Actually now that I think about it, you haven’t changed one bit, Hiro.”

“We—” Hanamaki blinks, trying to ignore the very little amount of space left between them at this point. “We’re straying off topic here.”

Matsukawa’s mouth widens into something even more affectionate than before. “Go out with me,” he says, like it’s nothing.

Hanamaki swallows and this time he can’t really control the small noise from the back of his throat. “Huh?”

“Is that your new tagline?” hums Matsukawa. “Cute.”

Suddenly realizing that they are still in the middle of a grocery store Hanamaki’s eyes dart in all directions before inevitably being pulled back to Matsukawa’s endearing grin. “Issei, you can’t just ask a person out on a date like that,” he hisses through a whisper. “Especially not after what we’ve been— _doing_ together.”

“Hiro, I think it’s you who has the dirty mind. Is sex the only thing you can think about?”

“Are we seriously doing this?”

Matsukawa dips a little closer to Hanamaki, if only for the pretense of privacy. “Look, I already told you what I want,” he murmurs. “But I don’t want to push you, so if you want to keep playing this little hard-to-get game I’m okay to wait a bit longer.” He pulls back then to fix Hanamaki with a boldfaced gaze. “But it’s just dinner, Hiro.”

“Just dinner,” Hanamaki repeats slowly, staring at Matsukawa without really seeing him now. His mind has jumped into overdrive and words are stringing together behind his lips, pounding against his gritted teeth. _Just coffee. Just sex. Just friends._

“Just dinner,” Matsukawa confirms with a nod and an easy smile, like Hanamaki is an anxiety ridden open book lying at his feet.

His fingers tighten around the handle of the metal shopping basket in his hands and Hanamaki contemplates the odd assortment of food he’s collected throughout their little exchange.

“Friday,” he says finally, turning on his heel towards the cash registers so as to not see the look of triumph no doubt littering the other man’s unreasonably handsome and exploiting features. “I get off work at the gallery around seven.”

* * *

It’s Thursday evening and already he’s panicking.

Hanamaki stares at the meager depths of his closet, a pair of very tight (probably _much_ too tight) jeans in his left hand and a low-slung v-neck in the other.

They are already sleeping together, he’s willing to bet that Matsukawa knows him better than anyone at this point (at _any_ point), and technically this isn’t even really their first date. _So why the fuck does he care so much?_

After another minute he throws the garments to the ground with an irritated sound and reaches for his phone on the nightstand. The first person he thinks to call is, of course, Oikawa. But ever since he and Matsukawa have been getting progressively closer again, Oikawa has been getting progressively more smug and annoying.

So he decides on the next best person and hit’s the call button.

It only takes a few seconds for a woman’s face to pop up on his screen, just a touch laggy with their connection, but familiar eyes blinking half-lidded and looking somehow knowing _already_.

“Hey, baby brother, what’s up?” Tamiko greets through a red-lipped smirk.

He grimaces at the mild term of endearment, but plasters on his best fake smile in return and says simply, “I need your advice.”

“Oh,” she hums, jostling the phone a bit. He can hear the click of heels on concrete and the chords of her white ear buds sway with each step. She’s probably just now getting home from work. “Is this about your date tomorrow night?”

Tamiko pulls out her keys, the noise jingling through Hanamaki’s screen obnoxiously, but it is not distraction enough to keep him from audibly choking. “W-what?” he gasps out, feeling his bed come up to meet him as his knees give out and he sits with a bounce. “How do you know about that?”

The laughter he gets in response is loud and grating and suddenly he’s wishing that he’d just stuck with his original plan and called Oikawa.

Tamiko is almost out of breath when she finally says, “Oh, so Manami was right?”

The name rings instantly familiar and warning bells blare through Hanamaki’s head. “Wait, Oikawa’s _sister_ told you?” he exclaims, his bashfulness turning instantly into frustration.

“Yes, baby brother,” Tamiko explains with an unnecessary eye roll. “I mean just because she’s got a kid to raise doesn’t mean she can’t still gossip over drinks. Actually, Takeru was with his uncles last night—I think that’s probably when she heard the news—”

“It’s not _news_ , Tamiko,” Hanamaki bites out, feeling very much at the end of his rope.

His teeth clench as his sister keeps talking, but he’s already tuning her out. Of course Oikawa would be involved in this some way or another. _Just fucking of course_. He’s going to kill him the next time he sees him, this time he’s really going to do it and even the likes of Iwaizumi Hajime aren’t going to be able to stop him.

“Takahiro, are you listening to me?”

“What? Uh, yeah—”

“I was asking what you needed my advice on?”

“Oh no, it’s nothing—”

“It’s with Matsukawa-kun, right? You two were very close back in high school,” Tamiko says and it’s not a question.

Hanamaki swallows, biting nervously at his bottom lip only to remember that she can see him through the screen.

“It’s okay to be nervous, Takahiro.”

“I’m not—”

“From what I remember he admired you very much when you were younger,” she says, voice softening. “I can’t imagine he’d ask you out if he weren’t serious about things.”

There’s a pause, a wide, deep ravine of silence that Hanamaki wishes would just swallow him whole already. The uncomfortable sweat forming at his nape has nothing to do with the humid night air filtering through his open window and everything to do with how _not_ wrong his sister’s intuition is for once in his life.

After another few beats Tamiko presses him gently. “Is that the advice you were looking for?”

“Actually, um—” his throat quivers, absolutely _aches_ , but he represses it with a swallow and instead says, a little breathlessly, “When—when it comes to jeans, how tight is too tight?”

The laughter that filters through his screen is pure and familiar. It makes his shoulders heave with a sigh and the grip on his phone relax as he watches his sister swiping at laugh lines and brushing away fallen wisps of strawberry hair darker and more reminiscent of their mother. She grins at him brightly and suddenly Hanamaki is ten years old in his sister’s bedroom adorned with plastic jewelry and ice-pink lipstick and watching her rifle through a trunk of dress-up clothes.

Even so, in the end, he’s grateful to have called Tamiko over anyone else.

(The jeans, in fact, are just the right amount of tight and he blushes furiously when his own sister compliments his ass in them.)

* * *

Later that night Hanamaki pulls up one of his recent contacts, typing out a message with a little too much force.

            **To:** Oikawa Tooru

            **Re:** your untimely death

            [ _you know what you did…_ ]

He’s secretly hoping for a bit of banter before drifting off to sleep. But all he gets in return is some winking-kissy-face bullshit and the simple words _‘good luck.’_

* * *

The thing about working at an art gallery that does its primary business online is that it gives Hanamaki the time (or more accurately the boredom) to work on his sketching.

Sure, he applies his artistic skills to the few clients he gets at the tattoo parlor, the type of people looking for something simple, free-form, sharp. A lot of admirers often request something similar to his own pieces, especially those ‘look-but-don’t-touch’ flowers winding black across his forearm. He always supplies them with his best work, and the medium is interesting and challenging and fun, but sometimes he still just likes to set graphite to paper and _go_.

“Nice composition,” a voice carries over his shoulder and before Hanamaki can close the cover on his latest piece a broad hand is reaching over to stop him.

He turns to see Nakahara-san, only inches from his face, leaning against the front desk to stare warmly at the portrait below them. “Boyfriend?” he wonders softly.

Hanamaki’s head shakes and the movement almost disrupts his boss’ view with their proximity. Voice catching in his throat at the question, Hanamaki looks down at the dark eyes watching him from within the confines of his sketchbook. “No, not exactly,” he stumbles out.

“An ex-boyfriend, perhaps?” comes the next question, like it had been resting on the older man’s lips all along.

Hanamaki’s eyes flick towards Nakahara-san in surprise. He watches as the man contemplates his drawing closely, and accidentally breathes in a whiff of cologne not unlike another he’s grown accustomed to as of late.

“No,” he answers, a bit bluntly.

Nakahara-san frowns, the barely there wrinkles near his mouth pulling down along with his peppery stubble. “Well, either way, it’s lovely,” he says, turning to fit Hanamaki with a barely there wink. “It suits you, Takahiro-kun. This style much more than some of your other works.” He turns fully now, to gaze at Hanamaki straight on, as if the sketch has now been suddenly forgotten. “Yes, quite lovely I think.”

Hanamaki is blushing, heat rising in his cheeks, and he can’t quite figure out the reason but then the sound of the front door echoes through the white-walled gallery and both men turn to greet the visitor.

“I apologize, I’m afraid we’re closing for the evening,” Nakahara-san starts, but Hanamaki jumps up before he can say much more, slamming his sketchbook closed and rushing around the desk towards where Matsukawa is fitting him with a surprisingly wide smirk.

“I’m with him—I mean, he’s with me.” Hanamaki snaps his jaw shut to try and swallow past the babbling. He breathes through his nose, pointedly ignoring Matsukawa’s gaze, and begins again. “I mean—are you okay to close up alone tonight, Nakahara-san?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” his boss nods, but there is an unmistakable tightness in his jaw as he rises back to his full height to give Matsukawa a thorough once-over.

Hanamaki doesn’t notice the sudden tension rising in the air around them (or at least pretends not to) as he grabs Matsukawa by the wrist and escorts him out rather abruptly, the glass door slamming satisfyingly shut behind them.

Once out on the street, Hanamaki’s shoulders slump and Matsukawa’s smirk takes it’s full and final form.

“Your boss has the hots for you,” he says.

Hanamaki blinks up at him. “Excuse me?”

“Please tell me you noticed the amount of painfully blatant flirting that just happened back there.” Hanamaki observes the jut of Matsukawa’s thumb as he casually hooks it over his shoulder.

Slowly shaking his head, Hanamaki replies dumbly. “He wasn’t flirting. That’s how he always is.”

Matsukawa shrugs, making the first move away from the gallery, but still throws out, “You’re really that ignorant, huh?”

Hanamaki blanches at the implication that has been growing way too annoyingly familiar as of late. “I’m not _ignorant_.” He lunges out with a smack to Matsukawa’s shoulder to make his point clear.

“Okay, okay.” Matsukawa rubs at his arm in mock pain. “Just don’t be surprised when Nakahara-san tries to get into your pants in the back room one of these days, Hiro.”

Hanamaki nearly stops in his tracks to turn around and walk straight home right then and there. If this is any indication of how the rest of their _date_ is going to go, he isn’t sure he’s going to be able to handle it. He’s flustered, flattered, and bursting with some fairly hysterical laughter all at once and everything is becoming nearly painful to contain. But of course, did he really expect anything less from their first official date?

With a long-suffering breath Hanamaki turns to Matsukawa with his best put-upon scowl. “How can you say shit like that with a straight face? Do you hear yourself?”

“I’m only calling it like I see it.” Matsukawa looks to him, face blank and smirk hidden away again, but the eyes behind his frames are still absolutely glowing.

* * *

“No, no, no—what about the time—” Hanamaki has to gulp in large gusts of air into his lungs through each bout of laughter in order to keep the words from choking him. “—the time when you put green die in Oikawa’s stupid moisturizer.”

Matsukawa snickers, looking off into the distance at the apparently fond memory. “I honestly didn’t know he put that shit on his face.”

Hanamaki tries for a few calming breaths, wiping at his eyes. “Dammit, we were awful little shits, weren’t we?”

“Still are—every time I go over to their place I rearrange Oikawa’s stuff,” Matsukawa says, straight-faced. “Last week it was the medicine cabinet. You wouldn’t believe how anal he is about that kind of thing.”

Hanamaki lets out a snort, staring at Matsukawa with a goofy grin that he doesn’t even feel self-conscious about. Here they are, reminiscing over a shared piece of vanilla cream cake that Matsukawa has not so subtly been letting Hanamaki commandeer, laughing and talking and everything just feels so _right_ again.

“That’s genius, I can’t believe I never thought of that myself,” he says, trying in vain to reign in his giddiness.

But he can’t help it, staring at the man across the table from him, someone he’d thought for sure he’d lost a long, _long_ time ago. Shit, Hanamaki likes him so much.

Shit, he can _never_ let Oikawa know how right he’d been all along.

A few minutes later when the check comes and Hanamaki is just coming down from whatever natural high he’s been riding practically since they’d sat down together he reaches towards the little black booklet out of habit, but Matsukawa’s fingers are there first, swatting him away.

“I’ve got it,” he says, voice deep as he lets his hand linger a bit on Hanamaki’s before grabbing the check.

Hanamaki, for what it’s worth, tries his hardest to look affronted, but the spark of skin on skin after going without it practically all evening has him fumbling for words. “No, we—we should split it at least—”

“I’ve got it, Hiro, really.” Matsukawa’s voice is firm, but his gaze soft. “I asked you out. It’s customary.”

Hanamaki shakes his head, finally righting his unfaithful brain. “It’s bullshit. At least let me get the tip.”

“How about I let you pay next time.”

Hanamaki tries hard not to let it show, but the words ‘ _next time’_ ring like the winning buzzer echoing across a volleyball court inside his skull. He isn’t sure if the butterflies rising in his stomach at that are elation or uncertainty.

His mouth feels dry when he next speaks. “Such a gentleman,” he lips, feeling a little lopsided, the sarcasm heavier than necessary.

Matsukawa doesn’t pay him any mind though and Hanamaki realizes that he _is_ being a gentleman and Hanamaki is kind of being an asshole. They are on a date after all, it sort of is customary even if neither of them are exactly traditional sort of people. But they _had_ shared a carafe of wine and a goddamned piece of cake.

Shit, this had been a real fucking date after all.

Hanamaki flicks his fingers towards Matsukawa’s glossy red credit card. “Um—thanks, then.”

Matsukawa awards him with a genuine smile, lips soft and tempting. “You’re welcome.”

Hanamaki has to avert his eyes so as not to be blinded by the handsome sight in front of him.

After the bill is settled Matsukawa walks him home, past the train station that will take him to his own apartment, and right to Hanamaki’s front door without heeding any of Hanamaki’s complaints or denials.

_A real fucking date._

The proverbial goodnight kiss is worth the argument over the check Hanamaki decides as Matsukawa’s tongue works past his lips, soft and slow. A knee nudges forward between Hanamaki’s legs and already, with the barest of touches, he can feel himself getting hard under Matsukawa’s careful ministrations.

His back hits the doorframe and on instinct Hanamaki grinds forward, but then suddenly the heat against his mouth is gone along with the pressure against his clothed cock and Hanamaki has to physically bite back a whine at the loss.

When he opens his eyes Matsukawa is staring at him, but whatever lust had fueled the kiss initially seems to have waned into something a bit gentler. He’s smiling at Hanamaki but still leaning away from him.

Hanamaki reaches out to catch Matsukawa’s shirt, tugging insistently. “What, that’s it?”

“Hm?” Matsukawa hums but makes no move to press back into Hanamaki like the hand clenching the fabric across his chest is so desperately trying to get him to do.

Hanamaki’s lips dip into a frown but he lets out a little chuckle, the confusion of the moment being cut with equal parts need and incredulity. “That kiss was pretty chaste compared to some of the things we’ve done—”

Matsukawa offers him a smirk, but he’s already running palms over Hanamaki’s fists in preparation to disentangle them. “Again with that dirty mind of yours.”

“I’m serious, Issei,” he insists, suddenly feeling a bit of panic rise up in his chest. He tugs again but Matsukawa only obliges him one step forward. “Don’t you—don’t you want to—?”

“I do, but I don’t want you to think—” Matsukawa starts, gently wrapping his hands around Hanamaki’s wrists and pulling them down until he can twine their fingers together properly. “That is, I’m not in this purely for the physical, Hiro. I want you to know that.”

“I—I do know that,” Hanamaki sputters, feeling shame lick at the back of his neck. He pulls away from Matsukawa’s grip altogether and fits him with a serious gaze. “I do,” he says again, a bit firmer for emphasis. “But, you just romanced the shit out of me and now I—I’m—”

Matsukawa interrupts him with a very pointed quirk of his brow. “Horny?”

Words catch in Hanamaki’s throat and as if that were admittance enough, Matsukawa moves forward again to slide a knee back between his legs until they’re once again pressed against his apartment door. Hanamaki breathes in a deep breath to steady himself, cologne and heat mingling in the back of his throat and shooting straight south.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans on instinct before leaning in to recapture Matsukawa’s parted lips.

He still tastes faintly of vanilla cream and Hanamaki has to push past the flush at how ridiculous of a turn on that is for him by clicking his teeth against the edge of Matsukawa’s lower lip. The action earns him a low groan and a familiar hand winding it’s way into the short hair at the base of his skull. The pull shoots electric stars behind his eyelids and an eager tongue mapping over the roof of his mouth snuffs out his resulting gasp easily.

The kiss is wet and sloppy; hedging on obscene, and just the way Hanamaki likes it. His fingers shake as they attempt to find their way into his pocket, trying desperately to grasp at his keys and wrench the door he’s currently being ground into with as little trouble as possible when Matsukawa pulls back again.

They share a breath, warm and wanting and Hanamaki finds Matsukawa’s blown-dark gaze through his lashes. He inches forward to reclaim those slick, kiss-red lips, but Matsukawa releases the possessive grasp on his hair and steps away

And with the next breath the spell is seemingly broken.

“Goodnight, Hiro,” Matsukawa whispers through the thick air between them.

Hanamaki blinks, trying to come up for air, but still not quite seeing through the haze. “Wha— _seriously?”_

Matsukawa’s mouth may have twitched. “I’ll call you.”

Hanamaki blinks again; swallows. “Tonight?” he demands pointedly.

Matsukawa’s mouth does twitch then and he quirks a brow as though he can see straight into Hanamaki’s lust-addled mind. “Tomorrow,” he says firmly, leaving no room for further argument.

Even through his disappointment, a shiver runs down Hanamaki’s spine at the tone.

“Oh and Hiro?”

“Hm?”

“I want you to _wait_ ,” Matsukawa states plainly, the abrupt depth to his tone and the implication not going unnoticed. “Can you do that— _for me?”_

Hanamaki’s fingers tremble at the thought until they’re curled into twin fists at his sides. “Yeah,” he acquiesces, voice steadier than it probably should’ve been.

He feels the tight, burning arousal in his gut pull up, halting but not yet dissipating. Matsukawa’s breath on his neck is warm and familiar, the request (no, _command_ ) working its way into his mind, _heady_.

Wait for him? Withhold a release that has been pulled so easily out of him since Matsukawa’s return? It was such an intimate idea, a command not given by or to just anyone. Hanamaki feels himself tense at the thought.

But he’s already given his word and Matsukawa’s lingering smile, the soft kiss against his jaw, fills Hanamaki with a pleasure he’s not sure he’s ever felt so completely before.

However difficult, he’ll do it—and the molten gaze behind those glasses proves that whatever comes next will be entirely worth the wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can pry the headcanon that Hanamaki has a kick-ass older sister that's gossip buddies with Oikawa's big sis out of my cold dead hands. 
> 
> (Also, the promise of what's to come in the next chapter may just give me a heart attack...and maybe Makki too...)


	6. i'll be your daydream, i'll wear your favorite things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“He’s jealous that I’m the one who gets to take you home at night.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day. Just look at all those new tags.

Hanamaki’s not sure the last time he’s been quite this hard.

It’s been weeks since his last release. Or maybe days. It could be seconds for all he can remember and the haze of arousal and the way his shoulders strain against the pull of the thick leather cuffs pinning his wrists at the small of his back is not making it any easier.

He’s a mess and the man lingering behind his kneeling form knows it because he’s the one who put him there.

The bed dips and Hanamaki feels Matsukawa’s knees coming to rest on either side of him, just barely boxing him in, and when he turns his neck a fraction he’s met with dark eyes glinting behind darker frames and his hands twitch against their bondage on the hardwired impulse to reach out and touch.

Matsukawa’s body is warm and naked behind him and Hanamaki can’t help but squirm backwards, seeking out the familiar heat and comfort. He’s surprised when Matsukawa actually indulges him, leaning until his leaking cock is pressed into the sensitive skin just at the swell of Hanamaki’s ass. An arm wraps around to steady him, coming close to his own erection but not allowing for any friction just yet. Instead Matsukawa dips his body forward and before he can attempt to right himself Hanamaki finds his cheek pressed into the mattress and large hands gripping his arched hips to keep them elevated until his knees can instinctually shift to balance his weight.

Hanamaki gasps out in muffled surprise, but the new position leaves him feeling open and vulnerable and the thought makes his dick twitch painfully where it hovers dangerously close to the duvet.

A finger trails down the line of his spine, leaving a trail of shivering gooseflesh behind until it dips into his newly displayed opening, already slick and loose from the earlier play that had left him so hard and wanting. Matsukawa toys with his rim, traces nonsensical patterns against the flesh of his cheeks and the unpredictable, feather-light touches have Hanamaki panting against the bed, barely able to shift positions or pull away from Matsukawa’s movements.

But really, he doesn’t want to pull away at all.

Finally, after what seems like hours, Matsukawa allows him one long finger plunging all the way in until the last knuckle. Hanamaki chokes on a groan, trying not to give the other man the satisfaction of hearing him fall apart, but then Matsukawa starts to swirl his finger, counter-clockwise, prodding and dragging against sensitive walls and Hanamaki breaks with a whine only half-muffled by the duvet.

“You’re dripping,” Matsukawa murmurs, the filthy words the first spoken between them in a long while.

Hanamaki feels a hand hover under his cock until a few gentle fingers reach to swipe at the pre-cum he knows has been leaking onto the bed for a while now. The touch sends his body twitching forward, seeking more, but Matsukawa only grants him one gentle tug before pulling away.

Hanamaki growls at the loss, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut at the sudden bit of anger that shoots through him. His arms tug at the cuffs still holding him at Matsukawa’s bidding and the soft scrape of leather against the skin of his wrists brings him back, just barely, from the precipice.

After allowing Hanamaki a few short seconds to breathe, Matsukawa pulls his solitary finger out a fraction only to push back in with two. The action earns him a sharp hiss and some erratic clenching around his knuckles. He soothes away any tension by rubbing gentle circles into the soft flesh of Hanamaki’s hip with his free hand, coaxing his muscles to relax once again.

Hanamaki sucks air in through his nose, feeling his heart pound against his ribcage with every new and minor movement of Matsukawa’s hands over and inside his body. He doesn’t remember how long he’s been kept in such a high state of arousal, time and space blurring at the edges, but with the addition of the restraints and Matsukawa’s touch growing more and more focused Hanamaki knows he’s not going to be able to hold back much longer.

When Matsukawa’s fingers twist sharply and drag across his prostate, Hanamaki’s entire body trembles. “Please,” he hears himself whimper, as if on command. “Please, can I come?”

“No,” Matsukawa breathes immediately into his ear, voice gentle but the fingers moving to grip the base of Hanamaki’s cock decidedly _not_. “No, not until you are honest with me, Hiro.”

 _Honest_ ; fuck Matsukawa’s been harping on that since the second the apartment door had been slammed and locked behind them, since the instant Hanamaki had grown hard with just a nip at his lips and a few well-placed bruises down his neck. And as much as Hanamaki might like to pretend that he doesn’t know what the hell the man is talking about, he does know, he knows all too well and it is only a matter of time before the rough hands and soothing mouth mapping out his body force him into giving himself away.

Matsukawa’s chest rests against Hanamaki’s arched spine, the fabric of his thin shirt burning hot and cloying against sweat damp skin and the sensation makes Hanamaki feel like he’s suddenly suffocating.

Teeth nibble at the shell of his ear, but when he pushes back with his straining shoulders Matsukawa is quick to move away. Still, Hanamaki’s mind is a fog, vision tunneling and body trembling, so he can’t seem to help the next words that slip through his clenched jaw. “ _Fuck you_.”

He’s lucky (he thinks) that Matsukawa’s response is a low chuckle that rumbles all the way to the fingers still lodged inside him. “I think you’d rather it the other way around,” Matsukawa murmurs, flicking his wrist just enough to drive his point home.

Hanamaki turns his resulting gasp into a sharp laugh. “Fuck _me_ then,” he hisses, teeth snapping.

Matsukawa slaps at the fleshiest part of his left ass cheek. “Be nice,” he warns gently, but the undercurrent of the command has Hanamaki’s fists clenching in their imprisonment.

“Fuck me,” he says again, trying to keep his voice steady. “ _Please?”_

“Better,” Matsukawa hums, tapping at his ass again just to watch the pale flesh bounce.

Hanamaki has a burning retort resting on the tip of his tongue, but when Matsukawa pulls his fingers away roughly he’s forced to suck the words harshly into the back of his throat. Before he can even think of composing himself Matsukawa thrusts in, slick and hot and nearly to the hilt.

While Hanamaki’s hazy brain struggles to catch up, his body tenses around the new intrusion, but he’d been well prepared and it doesn’t take long for Matsukawa’s hipbones to meet Hanamaki’s backside with a satisfying little smack of skin on skin.

The first time Matsukawa rolls his hips Hanamaki manages to bite back his moan, teeth tearing into his lower lip with the effort. The second time he’s not so lucky as Matsukawa seems to know his body better than he thought anyone ever could and aims a precise hit against his prostate that forces a high-pitched keen out against the duvet.

“Be honest,” comes a voice in his ear before Matsukawa trails wet, open-mouthed kisses down his burning neck and shoulder blades.

When Matsukawa curls his hips again, Hanamaki’s neglected cock twitches where it hangs and even though Matsukawa hasn’t moved more than a few inches in any direction, he knows he won't be able to hold out much longer. Physically _and_ mentally.

Hanamaki’s jaw drops open where his head is still pressed into the mattress, now damp with drool. He’s panting so heavily he can barely get his tongue to form anything more than unintelligible sounds, let alone actual words. “Issei, I—I—”

“Is there something you want to say?”

That velvet voice wrecks into him with more gravity than the hot, hard cock forcing him quickly over the edge.

Hanamaki can’t focus or think any longer and the words tumble past his lips, slick and wet. “I—I _love_ you.”

“Good boy,” Matsukawa murmurs through a kiss pressed against Hanamaki’s sharp vertebrae.

The praise is the final straw that pushes him from the cliff, his body trembling all the way down without anything to break his fall.

Hanamaki wakes with a start, shaking in the pitch dark of his bedroom; alone.

“Holy fuck,” he mumbles into the quiet, his breath coming out in short, stunted pants and every muscle in his body feeling spent and muggy with sweat.

He squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing harsh circles over his lids with the heels of his quivering hands. The sensation of warm breath on his neck and leather at his wrists has his back arching to sit up, his sleep-addled mind wobbling with the manic change of position.

Hanamaki peels his eyes open, half expecting to see smug eyes watching him behind familiar frames somewhere across the room. Of course he finds nothing, but just the idea of Matsukawa’s presence has his cock twitching against the sticky fabric of his underwear.

“Shit!” He reaches down with hesitant fingers to investigate the mess in his briefs with a mortifying groan. A wet dream at his age? How fucking embarrassing.

But when he considers having to explain this to Matsukawa, it’s not shame that flushes his bare chest and neck. When he flops back against his pillows Hanamaki can’t swallow back his moan at the thought. He’s already half-hard again and it’s still several hours until dawn.

* * *

“I had a dream about him.”           

“About Mattsun?” The gasp Oikawa gives is entirely annoying and unnecessary. “Makki, that’s adorable.”

Hanamaki pulls a face and if his hands weren’t currently occupied, the look might’ve been accompanied by a flick against that pompous, upturned nose. “It wasn’t a fairytale dream, idiot.” He pauses, turning to stare at the ink cap pinched between his gloved fingers. “It was a sex dream.”

“Oh, even better,” Oikawa purrs, ignoring Hanamaki’s resulting glare. “Naughty dreams are the best dreams.”

Hanamaki waits for Iwaizumi to jump in with a reprimand or insult or something but the other man stays silent, observing the stencil Hanamaki toys with and generally ignoring his overzealous fiancé.

So with a rough sigh Hanamaki indulges Oikawa because nothing else other than his mortifying personal problems seems to shut him up these days. “It was bad—I mean it was _good_ , but—” Hanamaki stumbles over his response, realizing he has no clue where he was going with this in the first place. No matter how close the friendship is, something’s are just better left unsaid. “It was good, but it was also—I don’t know—”

“You feel guilty?” Iwaizumi finally interjects, mercifully cutting off Hanamaki’s stuttering with an insight that normally would have been spot-on if not for the true reason for Hanamaki’s sudden anxiety.

“Guilty? Why should he feel guilty?” Oikawa squawks, perfectly offended. He turns to Hanamaki with _that_ look in his eye. “It’s only natural, Makki. The two of you have been getting it on recently. _Plus_ , Matsukawa is totally hot.”

That finally earns him a cuff on the ear and Hanamaki purposefully busies himself with a bottle or rubbing alcohol while Iwaizumi’s hair-trigger jealousy rears its ugly head.

“Hey!” Oikawa pouts. “It’s an objective fact, like ice is cold or the earth is round.” He leans forward into Iwaizumi’s face and Hanamaki thinks he might see Iwaizumi actually flinch a little at the sudden proximity. “Besides, you know you’ll always be the _sexiest_ , Hajime.”

Iwaizumi flinches away, face red not from anger anymore, and Hanamaki intercepts Oikawa’s smolder by brandishing a little pink razor between him and Iwaizumi’s exposed thigh.

“I don’t feel guilty, exactly,” Hanamaki explains slowly as he scrapes away the fine, dark hair on Iwaizumi’s leg with practiced movements. “It’s just—complicated.”

Hanamaki bites his tongue to keep himself from divulging anything more than that. ‘ _Complicated’_ is definitely not a lie, but the full truth is something he doesn’t need either of them knowing just yet, if ever. He knows Matsukawa would never mention anything too intimate about their relationship and he’s vowed to do the same, as hard as it is with such _complicated_ emotions bouncing around inside him from head-to-toe.

Besides, he knows what that dream means: he’s _horny_. He hadn’t gotten off in days and it had been welling inside him, he knows the dream was a fucking side-effect, it’s just that simple. But still, there’s something else to it that has his insides twisting and a part of him really does want to unload some of this shit onto his two best friends. But he can wait—at least until he can figure out a little more to what’s going on behind those lense-framed eyes.

“That seems normal to me,” Iwaizumi reasons, pulling Hanamaki back down to reality. “He was your friend for a long time before any of this.”

"Iwa-chan’s right. Being romantic together is a totally new thing for you two,” Oikawa chimes in, the fire in his eyes dying back down to a soft glow. “Besides, when was the last time you actually dated another person? If ever?”

Hanamaki frowns. “I’ve dated.”

“Hooking-up and dating are _not_ the same thing, Makki,” chides Oikawa with an actually stern look that has Hanamaki grumbling while he reaches for Iwaizumi’s stencil.

He lines up the thermal paper beneath the existing numbers trailing down Iwaizumi’s thigh, all of them resting beneath the largest tattoo of the bolded **26.2** , and when he pulls it away the three of them stare down at the purplish transfer denoting the date of Iwaizumi’s latest completed marathon.

Hanamaki takes in a deep breath, the smell of Green Soap and Oikawa’s flowery cologne assaulting him, before letting it out with a hiss through his teeth. “At the end of the dream,” he says carefully. “I said _‘I love you._ ’”

The silence that follows the admittance is excruciatingly loud. Hanamaki swallows back panicked excuses and sarcastic remarks. Instead of trying to backpedal or make it something that he knows it’s definitely not he just waits for one of them to say something.

It’s unsurprisingly Oikawa who breaks the quiet first. “It was just a dream,” he whispers, trying to reassure, and it’s not the response Hanamaki was assuming he’d get.

But when he looks up to meet Oikawa’s gaze, those round eyes are soft and imploring.

 _'Do you?’_ they seem to ask and Hanamaki gives him a little smile, a soft laugh through his nose. He averts his suddenly vulnerable features because the both of them, Oikawa and Iwaizumi, his best friends, they both know the answer to that question and it seems they always have.

* * *

The dream leaves him shaken for only a day or so longer and by the time Hanamaki manages to snap out of whatever anxiety-ridden, second-guessing bullshit his over-active mind has thrown him into he comes out on the other side more sexually frustrated than he’s felt in his entire ever-loving life.

And right now he’s stuck at the stupid gallery with Nakahara-san lingering over an unfinished collection of ink and watercolor prints on the wall farthest from Hanamaki’s reception desk.

As discreetly as possible Hanamaki texts Matsukawa some bullshit about working late and craving cheeseburgers and maybe, if Matsukawa doesn’t mind eating late, they can go together.

It’s an obvious ploy laced with lies and desperation.

Matsukawa texts him back two minutes later with a simple ‘ _sure’_ and Hanamaki spends the next half-hour trying to decode the hidden meaning there.

“You know what this wall needs?” Nakahara-san’s voice echoes across the stark gallery and startles Hanamaki out of his over-obsessing downward spiral. When he meets his boss’ gaze the older man grins before answering his own question. “Something edgy,” he says.

Hanamaki is not really sure how he should respond to this or if he is meant to respond at all. Instead he pockets his phone as Nakahara-san makes the trek over to him, his cognac oxford’s clicking against the hardwood with every step.

“Those are all beautiful pieces, but there is just something missing,” he continues, moving to lean against his forearms against the top lip of the desk. “What do you think, Takahiro-kun?”

It’s never bothered him before, Nakahara-san’s casual use of his given name, but ever since Matsukawa’s first visit to the gallery and his pointed observations, Hanamaki has found himself cringing more and more at the underlying intimacy there.

Hanamaki shrugs, truly at a loss. “I’m not sure,” he answers, honestly.

“Oh come now,” Nakahara-san all but croons. “You must have some opinion. How long have you been employed at this gallery? Going on almost two years now—is that right? And I would’ve never kept you on if I didn’t think you had a discernable eye for art, Takahiro-kun.”

Hanamaki’s not sure he’s ever had a ‘discernable eye for art’ even with a degree and an overly expensive education on such subjects, but he supposes Nakahara-san’s flattery might not be _all_ fluff.

He nods a little hesitantly. “I guess something a bit sharper might add a nice juxtaposition—”

Nakahara-san doesn’t let him get any farther before he’s rounding the desk to clap Hanamaki broadly across the back. “See! I knew you’d agree with me. Now—” he reaches for the leather bound sketchbook Hanamaki keeps (secretly, he thought) tucked away beneath a thick folder of receipts and order forms. “—there’s a few pieces in here I’ve already had my eye on, but of course you can give the final word, Takahiro-kun.”

“What?” Hanamaki splutters, instinctively reaching out to swipe back the sketchbook, but Nakahara-san already has it flipped open to a random page, eyes filled with something akin to desire. “You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” Nakahara-san states plainly, now giving Hanamaki that same look of desire. “I wouldn’t offer if I weren’t. You are a very talented young man, Takahiro-kun.”

“But those are just sketches.” Hanamaki feels his chest constricting as Nakahara-san quickly flips through the pages. “Not anything to hang in a gallery,” he almost shouts, panicking.

“Nonsense,” Nakahara-san dismisses him. “Don’t you want to have something of yours hung on a wall to be appreciated? You never know, someone might even want to buy one of—”

Hanamaki looks up when Nakahara-san stops mid-sentence and his eyes go wide as he stands in a rush, sending the rolling chair crashing into the wall behind them.

The open page is filled with ink and graphite drawn figures, all remotely similar, rough, some overlapping and intertwining; they are naked, bodies lean, hips curved, hair cropped short. Some are tied with simple chains or cuffs, some strung up with beautiful, intricate rope-work, others left bare, blindfolded or even gagged.

Hanamaki feels his entire body begin to shake. If this was any other person he might’ve laughed it off, joked, even admitted to enjoying the aesthetic bondage often provides. But this is his employer, his superior, someone who, seconds before, had been offering him an unprecedented chance to actually have space in a successful art gallery.

He watches Nakahara-san’s eyes as they take in each sketch. He watches the man’s lips twitch and then slowly pull into a smile. Hanamaki lets out the breath he doesn’t remember holding, but only for a second is his mind put at ease.

When Nakahara-san looks up, his gaze is something just short of lecherous. “Takahiro-kun, I had no idea—”

The door to the gallery opens and Hanamaki manages _not_ to throw up on his boss’ expensive leather shoes.

Matsukawa stands in the doorway, observing them with calm neutrality as if he didn’t just walk in on something entirely inappropriate. Hanamaki uses the brief second of distraction wherein Nakahara-san’s eyes flick from Matsukawa to his wristwatch with a deep-set frown to grab his sketchbook out of the man’s grasp and stuff it without ceremony into his bag.

“Your shift isn’t up yet, Takahiro-kun.” Nakahara-san’s words are dripping with sugar, but Hanamaki can detect the note of sour beneath it all as he stops midway from rounding the reception desk.

With a quick glance at Matsukawa (who still hasn’t moved an inch from the doorway) Hanamaki turns on his heel to face the older man with a wide, forced smile. “I apologize, I didn’t think it would be a problem. It’s only a few minutes before closing after all.”

“That’s two times in nearly a week,” Nakahara-san says, fixing Hanamaki with a surprisingly chilly stare. “You’re not trying to take advantage of me, are you Takahiro-kun?”

The question sets Hanamaki’s teeth on edge and he can practically feel the way Matsukawa bristles at Nakahara-san’s tone. “Of course not,” he replies, evenly.

He watches as Nakahara-san puts on a show of considering him before the man’s gaze flicks to Matsukawa. “I suppose I can let you go now if you’d be willing to open in the morning. I’ll be needing some extra help with the new collection, especially if we are to decide on some of your own pieces, Takahiro-kun.”

Through the tension Hanamaki hears Matsukawa’s weight shift behind him, but before anything more can be said he gives Nakahara-san a shallow bow. “Thank you. I’ll see you in the morning, Nakahara-san.”

Hanamaki turns quickly, not wanting to see the smug look he knows the man has plastered across his face, and walks brusquely towards Matsukawa.

“Bright and early, Takahiro-kun,” Nakahara-san calls after him and Hanamaki latches onto Matsukawa’s wrist and pulls him out the door and into the cool, evening air.

The seasons are changing rapidly and Hanamaki shivers against the thought that he should have really brought a coat with him when he’d left for work earlier. He ignores Matsukawa’s eyes drilling holes in the back of his head for a couple of blocks and thinks only of the crunching of leaves beneath his feet and making sure to set a damn alarm for tomorrow morning.

It takes exactly three and a half blocks for Hanamaki to break.

“Look, I know what you’re going to say, so don’t bother,” he growls, stopping abruptly to face Matsukawa. But as he turns to meet the man’s surely chastising gaze he finds that Matsukawa is already striding past him without a second glance.

“Oh, you do?” Matsukawa asks when he’s a step or two ahead of Hanamaki.

In turn, Hanamaki swallows back a sputter and spins on his heel again to catch up. “Nakahara-san has the hots for you,” he spits, coming up on Matsukawa’s shoulder. “Or Nakahara-san has no right to treat you that way. Or Nakahara-san seems like a sleazy old bastard.”

Matsukawa’s head shakes slowly and he still doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down. “I really wasn’t planning on saying any of those things.”

“Well, what the hell were you planning on saying then?” Hanamaki snaps.

After a few more steps Matsukawa finally tilts his head to meet Hanamaki’s scowl. “Be careful, Hiro,” he says.

Hanamaki feels, for all intents and purposes, like he’s just been slapped across the face. Matsukawa’s sincerity is palpable and actually a little disarming. “That’s it?” Hanamaki manages.

“That’s it,” Matsukawa nods before righting his gaze as they come to a bustling intersection. “I don’t know the whole story of what just happened back there, but I do know that you can handle yourself.”

“Well—” Hanamaki swallows past the foot in his mouth. “—thanks for the vote of confidence, I guess.”

He watches the corners of Matsukawa’s eyes crinkle. “You’re welcome.”

Hanamaki decides not to let himself feel guilty about his earlier tone. (It’s the sexual frustration again, he’s sure of it.) “So you’re not going to ask what happened?”

“No.” The light turns and Matsukawa casually hooks fingers around Hanamaki’s elbow as they cross, dodging through the crowd together. “You don’t need to tell me anything. Unless, of course, you’d like to.”

It takes the entirety of the intersection and half-a-block more for Hanamaki to decide that now was as good a time as any.

“Nakahara-san offered to put some of my pieces in the gallery’s newest collection.”

Matsukawa smiles wide, showing teeth. “That’s great, Hiro. Congratulations.”

Hanamaki shrugs it off, but can’t help the warmth that radiates under his collar at the praise. “Yeah, well, when he was looking through my sketchbook he may or may not have found some of my more _private_ drawings.”

“Private? What, like nudes or something?” Matsukawa snickers.

Hanamaki blinks and frowns up at that smirk. “Yes,” he says, emphatically.

It’s Matsukawa’s turn to blink now. “Oh.”

They continue walking, a little closer now, even though Matsukawa released his grip on Hanamaki’s arm the second they’d reached the curb.

“And I don’t think he particularly likes _you_ very much.” Hanamaki frowns, but he can’t fight the tiny bit of amusement at the memory of that little vein in his boss’ forehead when Matsukawa’s around.

“He’s just jealous,” Matsukawa says.

Hanamaki snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself, Issei.”

“Not of you, he’s jealous of me.” There’s an edge to Matsukawa’s voice that wasn’t there a second before and Hanamaki watches with pleasure the way his mouth twists with confidence as he speaks. “He’s jealous that I’m the one who gets to take you home at night.”

Hanamaki grins obnoxiously. “We’re not going home. We’re going to get greasy hamburgers.”

“All the better. You know they say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Matsukawa says with a sage look in his eyes as he moves to curl an arm around Hanamaki’s still chilly shoulders.

“Shut up. That doesn’t even make sense, Issei,” Hanamaki throws back, even as he fights to hide the genuine smile and rosy blush in the side of Matsukawa’s shirt as they walk on to the restaurant contentedly tangled together.

* * *

As things turn out they do end up at home, Matsukawa’s apartment to be exact, and Hanamaki has zero regrets even with his impending opening shift at the gallery in several short hours.

They sit together on rickety stools at the tiny kitchen island slinging stale details about their day over long-cold cups of tea and acting so utterly domestic that it has Hanamaki both internally cheering and groaning all at once.

He’s been craving this easiness with Matsukawa since nearly day one (he can almost one hundred percent admit that now), but the problem now is that, at the moment, he’s also _craving_ something else entirely.

Matsukawa is saying something, words of some sort, but Hanamaki has found a very new obsession with the man’s jaw-line that’s apparently taken over his ability to hear properly. He watches Matsukawa’s lips moving and can only imagine them trailing a warm, wet trail down the length of his spine and—

“Hiro?”

Hearing his name manages to snap Hanamaki out of his mortifying daydream and he finds Matsukawa studying him closely. “If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly were the private drawings your boss found?”

“Nothing,” Hanamaki blurts before his mind has even a chance at coming up with something other than the stark truth. “Just—they’re just practice, different male body perspectives and positions.” He nearly bites his tongue, but the last bit still slips out, unapologetic. “Most of them were— _tied up_.”

The explanation feels so awkward and cumbersome in his mouth. He’s not sure why he feels so self-conscious explaining this. It’s not like Matsukawa doesn’t know about most (ok, probably more than most) of his preferences in the bedroom after all.

Hanamaki feels a hand fall atop his knee and he nearly falls off the stool when his body jumps at the contact.

Matsukawa is staring at him straight on now. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Hanamaki breathes out, allowing himself to revel in the warmth of Matsukawa’s touch rather than flinching away. “Yeah, I’m totally fine. It was just kind of weird, you know?”

“You shouldn’t ever feel ashamed of what you like in bed, Hiro.”

The words are so familiar, so similar, that they nearly bring Hanamaki back to a time before things had gotten quite so complicated.

“I’m _not_ fucking ashamed. It’s just none of his goddamn business,” Hanamaki bites out, suddenly feeling much more grounded. “It’s _my_ business,” he says, and then with confidence he latches onto Matsukawa’s hand with his own. “And _yours_.”

It seems to take a moment for that to sink in, but when it does Matsukawa’s lips curve upwards, pleased. “Thank you,” he says and then, “Did you obey my request?”

The question comes out so casually and abruptly that it takes a second for Hanamaki to register the depth to it. The tension between them has clicked into something entirely different and the word _obey_ vibrates down his spine and his throat all but chokes on his answer.

“I may have—unintentionally.” Hanamaki shakes his head at how ridiculous of an explanation this is. And how ridiculously without hesitation he is in explaining it in the first place. “I-It was a wet dream.”

Admitting that makes him feel like some pubescent, raging teenager all-over again, but it’s the goddamn truth. So what if it makes him feel like an idiot, this is Matsukawa after all. He probably thinks it’s hilarious.

But when Hanamaki raises his eyes in hopes of meeting that tell-tale smirk, what he gets instead is heavy-lidded neutrality. “I see,” Matsukawa says, not-unkindly, but lacking any of the amusement that might aught to accompany such a confession.

A heat builds low in Hanamaki’s gut and he can’t quite suss out its exact origin, but watching Matsukawa watching him with a gaze that grows sharper with every silent breath between them only works to fan the embers into flames.

He wants Matsukawa to say something, _anything_ , even ask him about the damn dream just so he can snap the slowly rising tension threading amidst their unblinking eye contact. Hanamaki doesn’t want to break first, but Matsukawa is still silent, still unmoving, and the quiet begins to stretch past the point of uncomfortable.

There are two possibilities that lie ahead of them, but Hanamaki has his sights set on only one. The prompting words fall from his tongue before he can second-guess, but in the end this is exactly what he’s been thinking about since waking, hazy and panting, alone in his bed.

“So, are you gonna do anything about it?”

A brief moment passes where Matsukawa still holds his tongue, but he’s observing Hanamaki with something different now. Matsukawa’s gaze is appreciative as it roves over his features, but there is also something else there—something absolutely _hungry_.

Finally, his lips part slowly. “Would you like me to do something about it, Hiro?”

Hanamaki swallows even though his mouth is suddenly bone dry. He wavers for only a second, but doesn’t break eye contact. “Yes,” he says firmly.

Whatever strenuous chord that had been building between them snaps with Hanamaki’s admittance and in the next breath he watches Matsukawa’s eyes darken and his hand slides out from under Hanamaki’s own, fingers dangling and drawing attention to just how broad his palms actually are.

He swallows again, opens his mouth, but Matsukawa’s words drown out any feeling of panic or reevaluation. “Take off your clothes and get on the bed.”

Under Matsukawa’s watchful eyes Hanamaki feels his muscles spasm with the urge to simultaneously tense and relax with every movement he makes. He stands, legs unsure for only a second, before he gets to work.

He unbuttons his shirt with twitching fingers, pulling it off and leaving it on the floor somewhere behind him before attacking his suddenly tighter feeling jeans. When he is standing in nothing but his underwear Hanamaki considers making a show of it even more than he already has, but with a tentative peek through his lashes he can see that Matsukawa is already considering him with enough impatient fire that he’s done enough as it is.

So when he’s finally naked, the coolness of Matsukawa’s apartment licking at his exposed skin, Hanamaki turns to stare at the bed. It’s quite familiar to him already, large enough to accommodate two people easily, but not too large, and covered with a soft, dark duvet that would surely show evidence of what was to come. He can feel his cock, already half-hard between his legs, and the thought only serves to fill it faster.

Hanamaki takes a deep, steadying breath before walking casually forward until he can ease onto the bed, hesitating for a moment to decide which position to choose and settling on turning to lay against the pillows so that he can keep his eyes on Matsukawa. He waits for an order he knows will come next, but for a second he relishes in the subtle redness decorating the other’s long neck as he stands now, watching. It’s no secret Hanamaki likes admiring Matsukawa, just as much as the man seems to like admiring him.

“Turn over,” comes the order, like clockwork, though the brief pause had given Hanamaki just enough time to calm his mind with the visual that Matsukawa is just as worked up as he is himself.

Hanamaki turns over with a little bounce on his knees. He props his forearms against the mattress and digs his elbows in to set his back into a deep arch with purpose and precision. With each breath comes the scent of spice and sandal-wood from the linens beneath him. To hide the sudden onslaught of arousal that accompanies the lewd and very open position he curves his back a fraction more and pretends not to reap the low groan from somewhere close behind him at the sight.

He knows, in the end, any amount of unapproved provocation will probably only end badly for him. But in for a penny, right?

Half expecting a stinging palm at his backside already, Hanamaki flinches when he feels the bed shift with Matsukawa’s weight. But no contact comes and Hanamaki chews at his lip to hide the mortifying pout that forms there against his volition.

He watches from the edge of his vision as Matsukawa leans to retrieve something from under the bed. A second later, only an inch from Hanamaki’s curious gaze, lands a very conspicuous black box, lid already removed. To peek at its predictable contents Hanamaki is forced to lower his ass a bit (to a shamelessly victorious hum from above him), but as his eyes rove over the items laid out rather neatly inside he feels a tinge of nervous anticipation at the arousing, but likely improbable, idea that they will be able to use every item tonight in one sitting.

Matsukawa has set things up as they are definitely on purpose. Hanamaki’s hips twitch to grind atop the duvet beneath him, but a strong hand captures a sharp hipbone to halt him.

No words are exchanged, he can’t even see Matsukawa’s face at this point, but as he continues to stare into that depthless black box, Hanamaki knows exactly the meaning of that powerful touch.

Two months ago he would have never guessed that he and Matsukawa shared _so many_ particular interests. With a sudden, unsteady breath Hanamaki realizes just how much the tables have turned.

“Huh.“ Hanamaki lets out an anxious laugh. “You weren’t kidding, were you?”

Behind him Matsukawa removes his hand from his hip, but Hanamaki doesn’t dare flinch. “Kidding?” he murmurs, a hint of amusement hidden somewhere behind the serious tone.

“When you said you prefer—“ Hanamaki has to swallow through his minor hesitation, eyes still pointedly fixed on the box. “— _glass_.”

Matsukawa lets out an appreciative purr and reaches into the box to retrieve the clear glass plug that had caught Hanamaki’s eye. It isn’t particularly long, but it’s several inches around at its thickest point and just admiring it makes Hanamaki tremble with the desire to feel full.

“You can choose,” Matsukawa says, not bothering to beat around the bush any longer. “Ten with the plug.” Hanamaki watches, transfixed, as he turns the small, glass plug over in his long fingers with ease. “Or fifteen without.”

It’s gracious of Matsukawa to give him options, to make him feel somewhat in control of what is to come, but Hanamaki’s decision had been made for him the moment Matsukawa had retrieved his box of toys and they _both_ know that.

“Ten with,” Hanamaki manages to spit out as Matsukawa reaches for the bottle of lube on the nightstand.

Warm fingers fall to trace down the back of his neck and Hanamaki’s muscles naturally tense. The contact is soft and reassuring and so far from what Hanamaki continues to anticipate, but after a second’s worth of hesitation he finds himself leaning into the touch.

“Are you comfortable with the stoplight system?” Matsukawa asks, with nothing but that damn, heady confidence radiating off his trailing fingers and seeping into Hanamaki’s skin.

Hanamaki swallows in order to provide a clear answer. “Yes, very.”

“Good.” Matsukawa’s touch moves slowly downward until his palm finds a handful of flesh and kneads. “What color are you right now, Hiro?”

“ _Green_ ,” he practically moans, pressing his lips into the duvet, trying not to buck his ass against Matsukawa’s hand.

It’s so much. He hasn’t even been properly touched and already it’s so much. Matsukawa’s very presence is like an aphrodisiac Hanamaki didn’t know he craved until this exact moment.

He trembles on muscles already straining against their position when wet fingers find his entrance. They are tentative at first, gentle as they spread slick against the pucker and just that has Hanamaki biting back a moan. But when Matsukawa finally enters him, past the initial burn of the stretch, Hanamaki does moan, rutting back fast only to have the finger immediately pull away.

“Be patient,” Matsukawa croons, teeth finding the swell of Hanamaki’s ass.

His lungs constrict with a deep, steadying breath until he can manage to force his body still again. As a reward Matsukawa enters him with two fingers, pushing forward with a bit less kindness this time.

It is difficult, but Hanamaki lets Matsukawa work him open, take his time and tease. He knows the wait will be worth it, but when fingers brush against his prostate Hanamaki whines, thrusting back instinctively to bring himself any little bit of relief.

“Hiro,” Matsukawa warns, voice velvet hot where it melts across the skin of Hanamaki’s backside. But before he can right himself, Matsukawa pulls his fingers away again reaching in favor of something with a bit more weight.

From the edge of his vision Hanamaki watches the plug disappear from the bed in Matsukawa’s grip. He hears a cap click and with each passing second Hanamaki feels his body tensing with anticipation.

Matsukawa dips a thumb against his loosened hole and lips press against his lower back. Hanamaki breathes deeply, shuddering out a sigh in preparation for what’s to come. He needs to be as relaxed as possible and Matsukawa seems to know just how to ensure that happening.

Slowly he pulls with his thumb and prods with his mouth until Hanamaki lowers himself onto the bed, a pillow having been moved at some hazy point to prop his hips comfortably. Matsukawa mouths something against his skin and Hanamaki doesn’t have to hear him to know that it is gentle praise and reassurances.

When the glass plug finally swirls against his entrance, the sensation is chilly but welcome against Hanamaki’s flushing body. He’s warm all over and he can’t quite make out if it’s a blush of arousal or something else entirely.

Matsukawa pushes the plug forward and the stretch makes Hanamaki squirm softly against the pillow beneath him. He’s hard, incredibly so, but he has no intentions of letting go so quickly and easily. Not when there are bigger and better promises ahead.

The tapered glass head pushes in easily and Matsukawa allows him time to adjust with each small thrust forward, but at the widest point Hanamaki still finds his fists clenching against the bed sheets, teeth grinding against the mild discomfort.

A soothing hand runs along his thigh, leaving goose bumps in its wake and reminding Hanamaki to breathe. He does and with his next inhale the plug slides in with a satisfying nudge against his prostate. Hanamaki moans at the fullness.

“You’ve already come once without permission this week,” Matsukawa murmurs and his voice carries deep, sending a harsh throb to Hanamaki’s untouched cock creating a mess against the bed. “Do not make that mistake again.”

Hanamaki nods, he thinks, and then Matsukawa moves off the bed to stand next to him. Through heavy lidded eyes Hanamaki watches from his sprawled position as Matsukawa proceeds to remove his shirt, muscles working beneath golden skin, but stops at that. The idea that Matsukawa is still mostly clothed while Hanamaki lays naked and docile and plugged before him forces a shiver through all of his limbs.

Matsukawa taps gently at his shoulder and Hanamaki moves slowly to sit up, the plug shifting with every movement and turning his mind fuzzy with need. Matsukawa slides past him to sit against the headboard and with no prompting Hanamaki crawls forward, studying the other’s face for reassurances, before lying across Matsukawa’s lap.

Matsukawa works to move him into the exact position he wants, careful not to give too much stimulation to his leaking cock but running hands all over Hanamaki’s ass, even going so far as to twist and prod at the plug’s clear base.

Gnawing his lower lip raw between his teeth, Hanamaki grips the duvet beneath him and gives an experimental rub of his cock against Matsukawa’s clothed thigh. Above him comes a deep laugh and then a reprimanding tap to the plug. “You can rub your cock on me all you like, Hiro,” he says. “But remember the rules.”

Hanamaki lets out a shaky laugh of his own before rutting forward a couple more times, unable to stop the pathetic little whimpers that fall from his lips when he has to force himself not to continue. For his obedience he receives a hand kneading into the flesh of his ass and petting affectionately down his trembling thigh.

“Are you ready?” Matsukawa asks, finally, after what feels like an eternity of anticipation and teasing touches.

Hanamaki tilts his hips back to press himself into Matsukawa’s waiting hand. “Yes,” he answers firmly with no room for misinterpretation.

Matsukawa hums appreciatively. “Good boy.”

A fleshy echo accompanies the first slap, sending Hanamaki groaning into the mattress, fists snaring harder in the duvet. Matsukawa follows suit by rubbing his palm across the warm skin, just shy of the plug.

The second stings and Hanamaki can only imagine the reddish imprint it leaves on his pale skin. The third and fourth come in quick succession, one to each cheek respectively, and Hanamaki chokes on a gasp. He flinches away as his ass begins to burn, but the movement only serves to rub his cock against the rough fabric of Matsukawa’s pants, the sensation nearly too much.

“Color?” Matsukawa whispers, hand hovering over Hanamaki’s ass and head bent to listen carefully for the answer.

Hanamaki’s fingers are shaking in their grip on the sheets, but even through his arousal fogged mind he manages to remember to breathe. “Green,” he hisses out and receives the filth slap a heartbeat later.

Matsukawa rubs and squeezes his reddened skin, checking on the plug and giving it a little tug, before moving to his thighs. He gives each sit spot a weighty spank and Hanamaki actually growls at the sting of it.

His ass is starting to ache, inside and out, and he’s not sure how much more he can take of this. But he trusts Matsukawa to give him what he needs and if he’s done his counting right, he’s only got three more to go.

The eighth slap really jostles the plug inside of him, the bulb pushing against his prostate and Hanamaki lets loose an unsteady breath at the combination of pain and pleasure. He grinds his hips forward, but it’s a mistake and with a panicked whine he nearly finds himself tumbling over the edge.

He freezes, breathing hard, and Matsukawa fondles his pink skin, waiting patiently to continue. After a moment, when his hips stop trembling, Hanamaki pushes his ass towards Matsukawa again.

“You may come,” Matsukawa tells him, low and sounding nearly there himself. “But only after your punishment is complete.”

Hanamaki gives a shaky little nod and the next hit comes powerfully across both cheeks, just under the plug, but enough to push it right against his prostate again. He lets out a yelp, rising up on his knees to ensure his cock doesn’t touch anything in the next few seconds because surely any bit of sensation will be the end of him.

Matsukawa runs his hand up along Hanamaki’s spine, easing him back down and then pressing into his burning skin one last time. “Ready?” he asks and Hanamaki moans out his assent.

Matsukawa’s palm smacks straight down against the plug’s base, fingers catching against his already sensitive skin, and Hanamaki shouts as he comes.

It takes a few moments (he thinks) for Hanamaki to come back to himself. When he does he finds his head pillowed against Matsukawa’s bare chest, thighs on either side of his waist in a comfortable, warm embrace. He’s still naked, but the plug has been removed and he can’t help feeling thankful for that as his cock twitches with oversensitivity between their bodies.

He mumbles nonsense into Matsukawa’s chest when he feels kisses being placed against his hair. “You did so well, Hiro,” Matsukawa whispers, voice lighter now and full of affection.

“Mmm,” Hanamaki hums back, making the effort to tilt his head back in order to meet Matsukawa’s gaze through his slightly crooked glasses. “So did you.”

Matsukawa gives him a laugh for his trouble and leans forward to place a wet kiss against his nose. Hanamaki rolls his eyes, wrinkling his nose at the sensation, and shifting slightly on Matsukawa’s lap.

He smirks, grinding down on Matsukawa’s still prominent and neglected erection. “Your turn?” he asks, voice husky from overuse.

Matsukawa shakes his head. “This was about you—”

“Bullshit,” Hanamaki cuts him off. “I’m not letting you go to sleep with blue balls after you just gave me the best orgasm of my life.”

Matsukawa quirks a brow, lips tilting. “Better than your wet dream?”

Hanamaki scoots back to palm roughly at Matsukawa’s groin, earning himself a startled moan. “The real thing is way fucking better, trust me, Issei.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Matsukawa pants out. “But you’re spending the night. And we’re cuddling goddamnit.”

“Deal.” Hanamaki grins, showing off his teeth, before slinking the rest of the way down Matsukawa’s hips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they had hot and steamy sex til dawn...right?
> 
> Thanks for any and all love guys.


	7. he already knows that my love is fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Takahiro-kun,” Nakahara-san beams. He’s clearly already had his fare share of drinks and profitable business transactions. “Oh, is this your boyfriend?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to fxvixen and some kind anons for pulling me out of my writer's block in order to bring this chapter to life. It was a difficult one, so thank you!
> 
> For this chapter please heed the tags. There is _absolutely nothing graphic,_ but there are unwanted advances and physical/sexual contact. Just be aware.

The problem with having a thing for someone with glasses (not limited to, but perhaps most especially during sexual interactions) is that they tend to get in the way.

“Issei,” Hanamaki grunts, an unforgiving edge of Matsukawa’s black frames digging into the bridge of his nose as they writhe together, naked against the bed sheets.

Matsukawa releases the corner of Hanamaki’s swollen lips with a gasp, unable to keep his hips from grinding down against the slick erection beneath him once more, before he pulls back to adjust his glasses. “Sorry, I’ll take them off—”

"No, no,” Hanamaki protests, pawing at Matsukawa’s wrist. A couple of months ago he might’ve felt entirely awkward about the situation or his very adamant demand that the glasses stay _on_ at all costs, but over time he’s lost his edge of shyness on the subject and that seems to suit the both of them just fine, excepting in times such as this.

Matsukawa frowns just the slightest, no annoyance there just a deep seeded concern in making their pleasure ( _Hanamaki’s pleasure_ ) as enjoyable as possible. Hanamaki frowns back and shifts his hips, twisting. “Switch places with me,” he commands.

In a quick flurry of limbs and pre-cum Hanamaki finds himself hovering over Matsukawa, forearms braced on either side of his head. He grinds down, matching Matsukawa’s pace from before and a broad palm comes up to wrap around both their cocks.

“Better?” Matsukawa murmurs against Hanamaki’s open lips.

“Yeah,” Hanamaki gasps out, feeling the muscles in his thighs and stomach clench and twitch as Matsukawa works them both over, rivaling each thrust with just the right amount of movement and pressure.

Hanamaki’s vision glazes as he observes the barely visible reflection of his flushed features in the glass lenses crookedly covering Matsukawa’s blown dark eyes. Then, without caring about the minor obstruction between them, he leans down to capture Matsukawa’s lips in a tender kiss, fucking even faster against Matsukawa’s matching erection and touch.

It doesn’t take much more than that, seeing as how they’d been mauling each other’s lips and necks and grinding against one another since they’d been awoken by Hanamaki’s morning alarm some time ago. After a few more breathless seconds they lay there, still tangled, sticky and panting and very much ready to fall back asleep until they were both ready to go at it again.

“We should probably shower before work,” Matsukawa whispers in his ear after they’ve taken a quiet, blissed-out minute to come back down to reality.

Hanamaki groans, almost snarling into the warm skin of Matsukawa’s shoulder. “ _Fuck_. I can’t even move right now, let alone go face my pervy-ass boss.”

Matsukawa’s resulting chuckle rumbles through Hanamaki’s ribcage pleasantly. “C’mon, I’ll help.”

Before Hanamaki can protest, Matsukawa’s got a hold of him bridal-style, lifting him off the bed with the ease of very prominent, very _unfair_ muscles that Hanamaki can feel rubbing against his still naked body.

“Thanks,” Hanamaki grumbles out, the sarcasm not quite muffled by Matsukawa’s pectoral muscle.

In retaliation Matsukawa bounces him a bit more than necessary in his grip as they finally make it to the bathroom. “What are friends for?” he says entirely straight-faced.

The word _friends_ hangs heavily in the air between them as Matsukawa lowers Hanamaki to his feet before padding over to turn on the shower. Hanamaki thinks for just the briefest of seconds that he could probably make it out of the apartment, sans shower, with most of his clothes before the water heated up if he really put his mind to it.

Instead he lets Matsukawa tug gently at his wrist until they are both standing under the lukewarm spray in the slightly too-small shower stall, pressed close enough that the mess still sticking to both of their stomachs is washed away simultaneously, swirling together down the drain.

Instead he lets Matsukawa wash him, scrub soap across his limbs with clinical precision, even going so far as to swipe behind his ears with a soft smile that Hanamaki can’t stop himself from mimicking.

Instead they shower together, quietly and efficiently, without a hint of sexual tension or expectation. It’s natural; comforting and warm and Hanamaki allows himself to relax into the feel of Matsukawa’s hands slicking away suds and water from his shoulders like they’ve been doing this together all their lives.

When they’re both out of the shower and wrapped in fluffy towels, Hanamaki observes Matsukawa, domestically, as he spits toothpaste into the sink.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Hanamaki says. “The gallery’s having a soft open for the new collection on Friday and Nakahara-san said I could invite some people.” Matsukawa turns to him with slightly furrowed brows and speckles of toothpaste still clinging to the corner of his mouth. “So wanna be my plus one?”

“How could you forget something like that?” Matsukawa answers, not sounding annoyed exactly, but something of the sort. “Of course I’ll be there.”

Hanamaki shrugs, not entirely sure why Matsukawa has chosen to _care_ so much about something that really doesn’t affect him aside from some free champagne and hors d’oeuvres. “It’s really not that big of a deal—”

“It is, Hiro,” Matsukawa says, eyes a bit wider than usual. “For once it’s _your_ artwork on display.”

Hanamaki feels like the wind has been punched out of his lungs, but he just shrugs again because he can’t think of anything else to do, having this conversation standing in Matsukawa’s bathroom in nothing but a towel. “Just a few pieces.”

“It’s a big deal, Hiro.” Matsukawa turns away, unceremoniously dropping his own towel to the floor before walking out of the bathroom and into the hall. “And I will be there. Especially if I get to shamelessly flirt with you in front of Nakahara-san.”

Hanamaki has to force himself to pry his eyes away from Matsukawa’s retreating ass. “Issei,” he warns as sternly as possible without choking.

“Kidding, kidding.” Matsukawa throws over his shoulder, his gaze is nothing but serious. “But what are your thoughts on hand-holding?”

This time Hanamaki growls around a smirk, as Matsukawa not so stealthily flexes his glutes. “ _Issei!”_

* * *

On Friday night Hanamaki stands in front of his mirror and tries desperately to imagine himself putting on airs in front of potential clients, conversing with Nakahara-san in a business-like manner, or humbly accepting whatever meager praise he might receive for his work on display this evening.

Instead all he can imagine is the phantom sensation of Matsukawa’s palms dipping into the back of his charcoal dress slacks, Matsukawa’s arm casually slung over his shoulder as they mill about the dim-lit party together, or Matsukawa’s mouth murmuring his own brand of praises along Hanamaki’s neck and jaw in the shadows of the storage room.

Hanamaki straightens his spine in the mirror, closes his eyes, breathes deeply. It doesn’t help, but the loud knock on his front door is enough to at least startle some sense back into him as he scrambles out of the bathroom to check the peephole.

Hanamaki frowns when he sees who it is, which is a kind of weird reaction because the person on his doorstep is Matsukawa.

But see, here’s the thing: over the last few months Hanamaki has learned that there are several things that seem at odds in the— _relationship_ , for lack of a better word—between he and Matsukawa.

First off, the incessant (read: welcome) need for casual touch. A brush of a palm here, a tangling of fingers there. Shoulders bumping, whispering lips lingering against sensitive ears. It’s nice. It’s also very disorienting.

Second, is Matsukawa’s insistence on using the word _friends_ whenever the mood seems especially right for another word or idea to finally show its face. This, coupled with the casual touching, is one of the varied things that keeps Hanamaki up at night only to have Matsukawa brushing a thumb against the bags under his eyes the next day. Again, disorienting.

Third, the dates.

Fourth, the sex (read: mind-blowing, best sex of your life sex).

Fifth, Matsukawa’s nonchalant nature that had at first seemed a welcome, even attractive, quality, but as it turns out, the whole casual, taking things slow vibe is really only adding to the aforementioned state of disorientation.

Sixth, the fact that Matsukawa is currently standing outside his door, knocking, instead of waiting patiently downstairs like a normal _friend_ would be doing in this situation.

Maybe Hanamaki is just being too needy. Since when have labels been so important to him anyways?

“Hey,” Matsukawa greets when Hanamaki opens the door.

“Hey yourself,” Hanamaki says back, probably a bit more sharp than it needs to be—this being the fault of his stupidly overactive mind, of course. He doesn’t bother to address the whole boy-next-door thing Matsukawa’s got going on, waiting patiently on the other side of the threshold for Hanamaki to join him.

Hanamaki does, after one more steadying breath, and grabs his keys from their hook at the last second before the door slams closed behind him.

They walk together towards the train station for several minutes in utter silence. There’s some space between them, but they’re close enough to be considered intimate and the lack of conversation or talk in general eats away at Hanamaki faster than it might have on any other evening besides this one.

“You look nice, Issei,” Hanamaki finally bites out, forced and a little pointed. He quickly swallows away his immediate regret.

But if Matsukawa noticed the edge in the tone, he doesn’t give it away. “Thank you,” he says genuinely, glancing briefly down at his dark pressed shirt and even darker slacks.

“Well? Aren’t you going to say anything about _me_?” Hanamaki presses, the whininess in his throat unbecoming even in his own head. He grimaces but by then it’s too late.

“I was going to,” Matsukawa answers easily, seemingly still unperturbed. “But I figured you’d just deny it or brush it off like you usually do.”

“Oh,” Hanamaki almost flinches at the honesty there, taken aback. His voice comes back down to its normal baritone again as he stumbles a bit for words. “I do that a lot, huh?”

“I can still tell you if you’d like,” Matsukawa says, eyes turning as if to give Hanamaki a thorough once-over, but staying locked on to Hanamaki’s own instead. “Because you do look gorgeous, Hiro. Is that a new shirt?”

Hanamaki feels his cheeks flush under the direct attention. _Gorgeous_ isn’t exactly the word he’d been expecting or looking for here. It seems a little over-the-top, flamboyant even; saved for people like Iwaizumi to say to people like Oikawa late at night, in bed, privately.

He should accept the roundabout compliment and thank Matsukawa. It is a new shirt and he does look gorgeous in it, dammit. Instead he says, “Don’t let me get too drunk tonight, okay?”

Matsukawa stops short and it takes Hanamaki a few more steps to realize it. When he turns he finds Matsukawa observing him in the bluish neon light of a nearby restaurant sign. His gaze is deep and for once entirely humorless.

“You’re nervous,” he says. It’s a statement, an observation.

“Gee, how could you tell?” Hanamaki snarks, but the bitterness he’d been going for is overpowered by the real and true anxiety he can feel welling in his gut.

He’s not entirely sure that he’s _just_ nervous about the soft open anymore.

Matsukawa looks like he wants to say something more, maybe something to reassure, but when he doesn’t Hanamaki remembers the way he’d refrained from complimenting him earlier and wonders if maybe the whole ‘bitter and unlovable’ novelty is starting to finally wear off.

“I’ll be okay,” Hanamaki answers as genuinely as possible, after it’s clear Matsukawa isn’t going to carry the conversation this time. “It’s just—I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Again, he’s not certain the soft open is the only thing he’s referring to at this point.

It still takes another few beats of Matsukawa’s unwavering gaze before whatever odd tension between them snaps with a nearly audible sound. “You’ll be fine,” Matsukawa nods. “And if not, we’ll just sneak out the back and go get profiteroles at that place you like down the street.”

It seems so clichéd—the line, the idea of sneaking off together, Matsukawa’s genuine willingness to ply Hanamaki’s anxiety with pastries. But even as clichéd as it most definitely is, Hanamaki still lets Matsukawa drape an arm around his shoulders and guide them the rest of the way towards the train station.

It’s chilly out, but Hanamaki hadn’t even really noticed until he’s enveloped by Matsukawa’s warm heat. It only takes a few more steps together for him to realize he’d finally stopped shivering.

* * *

Together they find Oikawa and Iwaizumi waiting for them outside of the gallery. Hanamaki watches them as they approach, still far enough down the street that the couple hasn’t noticed them. Though it really doesn’t seem to have much to do with their proximity as it does with the way Oikawa is leaning into Iwaizumi, cheeks pink from the nip in the air, with Iwaizumi’s broad palms tracing patterns across his fiancé’s back; they’re entirely engrossed in one another, like the world is a blur save for the two of them.

For Hanamaki the sight is some twisted combination of heartwarming and infuriating.

As they approach he must make some kind of sound of disgust because just as the couple turns to greet them he feels Matsukawa’s fingers pinch sharply at his side, but when he turns with an argument and a frown the only thing he gets from Matsukawa is a knowing sort of smirk before he’s turning to face their friends. Odd, because they rarely ever miss an opportunity to make fun of any sort of PDA together, even back when Iwaizumi and Oikawa weren’t even an actual item yet.

“Makki, I’m so excited,” Oikawa croons, grabbing hold of Hanamaki by the arms and tugging him towards the gallery’s glass door, effectively cutting off any sort of remark he was preparing for his once trusty partner in crime.

“Why?” Hanamaki asks blankly, craning his neck to stare at Matsukawa. He’s forgotten entirely where they are or what they’re doing apparently, which is both good and bad for his sudden onslaught of nerves.

Oikawa frowns, tugging him a little harder. “Are you okay?” he whispers seriously in Hanamaki’s ear. “Did something happen?”

Hanamaki blinks and turns the question over in his head a few times. _Did_ something happen? It doesn’t seem like it, at least nothing out of the ordinary really. So then why does he feel even more disoriented now than he has— _probably ever?_

“Issei’s being kind of quiet,” he decides, even though he knows that can’t be the extent of it all.

“Mattsun’s always kind of quiet,” Oikawa says, throwing a glance back at something Iwaizumi and Matsukawa are discussing casually behind them. “Maybe he’s nervous?”

“What the hell would he have to be nervous about?” Hanamaki’s mouth bites out before his brain can think twice.

Oikawa quirks a brow and gives Hanamaki a very pointed look, lips verging on a pout. “Makki is so dumb,” he mutters, but before Hanamaki can defend himself he’s being pulled through the door and practically right into Nakahara-san’s arms.

The man is carrying two hefty glasses of champagne and a plastic smile reminiscent of something from Oikawa’s own repertoire, but considerably less attractive. He catches Hanamaki’s tiny stumble by shoving a flute into his hand and steadying his slighter frame with an arm around his shoulders that feels suffocating compared to the one that had been curled there earlier.

“Takahiro-kun,” Nakahara-san beams. He’s clearly already had his fare share of drinks and profitable business transactions. “Oh, is this your boyfriend?”

Hanamaki watches in horror as Nakahara-san waves a finger at Oikawa standing in front of them, looking a little surprised at the older man’s actions. Hanamaki shakes his head. “No, no, this is Oikawa—”

 _"I’m_ his best friend,” Oikawa interrupts, placing a hand over his chest, as he reads the situation before him perfectly. Then after a second of anticipation he steps to the side and waves with a flourish towards Matsukawa. “ _This_ is his boyfriend.”

For what it’s worth, Matsukawa is still mid-conversation with Iwaizumi, but when Oikawa’s voice rings out across the gallery’s entryway both men stop to turn and stare. Hanamaki pretends not to notice the way Matsukawa’s eyes linger on Nakahara-san’s arm still resting around his neck.

“Friend!” Hanamaki blurts out as quickly as he can get the word off his tongue. He gestures wildly, probably spilling a few drops of champagne in the process. “These are my _friends_!”

Nakahara-san’s smile is still waxy, but he does give a little nod towards the three men before turning back to Hanamaki. “Ah, well I’m so glad you’re here Takahiro-kun. I’ve got some people I’d like you to meet.” He places a guiding hand in the small of Hanamaki’s back before nodding again at the others. “If you’ll excuse us just for a moment.”

Before he can even think of making an excuse Hanamaki is being pulled along through a throng of tailored suits and slinky dresses and too-much cologne until he cannot see his friends or Matsukawa when he turns to search through the partygoers.

“They’ll be fine,” Nakahara-san remarks in his ear, mistaking his nerves as concern for his guests, rather than something else entirely. “Ah, here we are. This is the artist, Hanamaki Takahiro.”

Hanamaki blinks at his own name and then focuses on the person standing before him. He’s a middle-aged man with two small golden hoops in one ear and obsidian eyes to match his hair. He doesn’t look at all like any of the other art-snobs milling about the gallery. He doesn’t even cringe at the way Hanamaki’s sleeves are rolled up to unapologetically show off the rose tattoo trailing up his arm; in fact, when he glances at it the man almost looks appreciative. Actually, Hanamaki realizes, he reminds him a little bit of Matsukawa.

“Hanamaki-san, it’s a pleasure,” the man greets with a slight bow. “My name is Azuma Kane and I’m very much interested in purchasing one of your pieces.”

Hanamaki just stares at the man, unsure how to proceed. His mind is still in a whirlwind of thoughts and everything seems to be coming at him like a movie on permanent fast-forward. He swallows down a sip of the champagne still clutched in his fingers, the bubbles tickling his throat. Then he says the first thing that comes to mind. “Really?”

From next to him Nakahara-san gives a tight little chuckle, but when Hanamaki meets his eyes he can see the fire of annoyance there. “You’ll have to excuse him,” Nakahara-san simpers. “This is his first exhibition. Isn’t that right, Takahiro-kun?”

Even if Hanamaki is admittedly a bit out of his element right now, having his boss speak to him in such a manner in front of a potential client makes his blood start to boil. He sends a glare towards the man before turning back to Azuma. “I apologize. What piece is it that you’re interested in?”

Azuma gestures towards the illuminated wall next to them and Hanamaki’s gaze follows until it stops, a little unsteadily, on the one piece he’d argued fervently with Nakahara-san over for what seemed like hours when they were putting the collection together.

It’s an ink drawing of a man on his knees, face turned away. His forearms are wrapped with intricate rope at the small of his back and an intersecting harness is wound around his lean body with knots lining the man’s spine and sharp shoulder blades. It is nude, but tasteful and quite aesthetically pleasing and those had been Nakhara-san’s main (and winning) arguments.

In the end Hanamaki hadn’t really had much of an argument of his own at all, but he’d never in his wildest imagination thought that this would be the first piece he’d actually manage to sell in what he’d always thought of as a refined gallery.

Azuma is complimenting his work as Hanamaki’s head clears. He has the urge to ask ‘ _really?’_ again, but instead says a very genuine, “Thank you.”

“I’ll draw up the documents right away,” Nakahara-san interrupts abruptly from his left and he grabs Hanamaki’s bicep a bit too firmly. “Takahiro-kun, if you’ll assist me?”

Before he can be dragged away yet again Hanamaki manages a, “Thank you again, Azuma-san,” and not more than a few seconds later finds himself facing an ecstatic looking Nakahara-san in the shadows of the storage room he’d been thinking about earlier. Of course, now the atmosphere is incredibly uninviting and the company not exactly what he’d been hoping for.

“Congratulations on your first sale!” Nakahara-san cheers proudly, plucking the mostly empty glass from his hands and shaking Hanamaki’s shoulders. For a second Hanamaki lets his guard down, allowing himself to take in the reality of what’s just happened and preen a bit under Nakahara-san’s praise and excitement.

But then, just as he’s starting to relax, Nakahara-san pushes in with a very unwarranted and unwanted kiss.

Hanamaki’s hands immediately fly up to push against Nakahara-san’s chest as the man presses their lips together, his eyes darting to the room’s closed door frantically. He pushes again, more powerfully and this time Nakahara-san releases him only to crowd him against the wall with a look in his eyes that sends a tremor of absolute disgust and fear down Hanamaki’s spine.

Nakahara-san is only an inch or so taller than Hanamaki, but he’s broader on all accounts and presses Hanamaki against the wall like it’s nothing.

“I’m so proud of you,” the man whispers, brushing his lips against Hanamaki’s jaw. He presses a kiss there and Hanamaki recoils as far as he can.

“S-stop, what the fuck,” he hisses out, stammering a bit with his words and unsure of what to actually do in this situation. For some reason his limbs don’t seem to really be listening to the frantic shouting of his brain anymore.

“You said that you don’t have a boyfriend,” Nakahara-san says, like that in itself makes his advances okay. Hanamaki tries to pull away again, but those lips are back on his own and suddenly he _can’t breathe_.

Just as Nakahara-san’s tongue forces its way into Hanamaki’s mouth the door opens.

It takes about two seconds for the man to be torn off him, spun around and knocked to the ground with a powerful punch to the jaw. Hanamaki blinks at Nakahara-san moaning at his feet and it takes him a few breaths to realize that his body can move on its own again and that the heavy-handed hitter is not, in fact, Iwaizumi.

Matsukawa stands before him and he’s fuming. Hanamaki isn’t sure he’s ever seen him so angry or emotional in their entire lives. His fists are curled at his sides, trembling with the urge to strike again, and his jaw is clenched so tight Hanamaki can practically hear his teeth grinding.

“Sick fucking bastard,” Matsukawa growls down at Nakahara-san and for a second Hanamaki thinks he might kick the man from where he stands. But then Matsukawa raises his gaze to Hanamaki and it softens considerably when he sees the man is relatively unscathed.

Matsukawa extends his hand and Hanamaki almost jumps off the wall and around his boss’ body to grab onto Matsukawa. Nakahara-san just watches them, cradling his bruising jaw, and staring at them with a glazed sort of expression that Hanamaki never wants to see in person ever again.

Outside the back room they find Oikawa and Iwaizumi rushing towards them, matching expressions of concern lining their faces. “What happened?” Oikawa asks. “Are you alright?”

Hanamaki isn’t sure exactly what to say. He thinks he probably looks a bit disheveled, his eyes are probably still wide in shock, but he can do nothing other than nod in some minor reassurance.

“We’re leaving,” Matsukawa announces and his voice is still on edge, darker than usual. Both Iwaizumi and Oikawa just nod, not hiding the worrisome glance they share, but still giving Matsukawa a wide birth to guide Hanamaki towards the front door.

When they step outside the cool air is a welcome sensation against the flush that has taken over the entirety of Hanamaki’s body. He’d like to attribute his feverish symptoms to the panic and disgust of Nakahara-san’s hot breath and slimy words that Hanamaki can still feel, as though they are living entities crawling over the surface of his skin. But really, for some stupid reason, it’s not that at all.

At this point Matsukawa isn’t actually touching him, just hovering his hand over Hanamaki’s back as if he fears the man will topple over at any given second. “I should have never let you go off alone with him,” he growls lowly when they’re two blocks nearer the train station, a cautious Iwaizumi and Oikawa trailing behind silently.

“He was introducing me to a client,” Hanamaki mutters through his teeth, feeling that hot flush start to burn. “That was the whole point of the soft opening.”

In another burst of what can only be considered blind rage on someone as naturally easy-going as Matsukawa, the man hisses, “You’re not seriously defending him, are you?”

Hanamaki stops short now, glaring when Matsukawa bumps inadvertently against his back before quickly pulling away. “Are you fucking kidding me, Issei?”

“I’m sorry—” Matsukawa’s eyes dim immediately behind his frames and Hanamaki can feel the unspoken agitation from the couple behind them hitting him in waves. “I just—I feel like I could have prevented that.”

“I could’ve handled him on my own,” Hanamaki snaps with no idea why. It’s not a total a lie, but rather a stretch of the actual truth.

Matsukawa softens even more, like Hanamaki’s somehow drained all the anger out of him only to now use it against him. “Hiro—”

“I don’t need you to fucking take care of me, Issei!” Hanamaki shouts and he doesn’t give a shit if people are staring. His words are laced with venom, but even though the rage is directed at Matsukawa, that’s not who Hanamaki means it for at all. “You’re _not_ my boyfriend, so you don’t need to keep acting like you are.”

Silence follows his outburst, so thick it threatens to swallow all four of them whole. Hanamaki thinks he sees Oikawa step forward, but a firm hand on his shoulder stops him from crossing the newly drawn line between them. Hanamaki shudders to think that for once he actually wants Iwaizumi to let Oikawa interrupt, let him cut away whatever strange and painful tension now sits heavily between he and Matsukawa here in the street, laid out for all eyes to see.

But then Matsukawa does it for him.

“Is that how you really feel?” he asks.

It’s such a loaded question, but Hanamaki can’t tell if Matsukawa knows that yet or not. He’s still furious, but certainly not at Matsukawa and not even really Nakahara-san at this point. He’s furious that still, after all this time and after all the things that have transpired between them, he can’t just be honest.

And that’s all Matsukawa wants, isn’t it?

“I—” Hanamaki stumbles, looking away to the pavement beneath them. All the fiery wind is gone out of his sails. “I don’t know.”

Matsukawa nods, but he can’t possibly understand. “Let’s just get you home,” he says and when he turns back towards the train station this time, he let’s Hanamaki walk all on his own.

* * *

The guilt of the entire situation has practically eaten Hanamaki alive by the time they part with Iwaizumi and Oikawa (the latter insisting they talk in the morning) and make it back to his apartment. His body feels disgusting, especially where Nakahara-san pressed against him, and every few seconds he feels a tremor in his stomach like he might throw up from the lingering taste and sensation of unwanted lips on his own.

But it’s not just Nakahara-san that has him feeling like shit. He fucked up. He fucked everything up with Matsukawa because the man had defended him, _saved him_. And Hanamaki had gotten mad? Had yelled at him, screamed at him in front of their friends? All over a stupid little thing like pride.

Or the more likely answer: fear.

“I’m sorry, Issei,” he says as he finally jiggles his door open after the third try.

“So you’ve said,” Matsukawa answers as he slips past the threshold but doesn’t make any other move to follow Hanamaki inside. “And like I’ve said, there’s nothing to be sorry about. But I’ll ‘forgive’ you for a fifth time, if you want.” Hanamaki wants desperately to chuckle at Matsukawa’s unapologetic use of air quotes.

Hanamaki’s skin feels like it’s going to crawl straight off his body, but he looks up at Matsukawa through his lashes anyways, dazed. “Thanks,” he says and then, “I think I need a drink. And an entire bottle of mouthwash. And probably a shower.”

Matsukawa humors him through his rambling and waits until he’s sure Hanamaki is finished. “I’d suggest starting with the shower and the mouthwash.” His words are amused, but there’s an edge in his tone reminiscent of the one he’d used earlier.

Hanamaki wants so desperately to brush this off, to not think about it ever again. But he knows by the look on Matsukawa’s face that it won’t be so easy.

"Issei, I’m alright,” he says earnestly, as though maybe saying it aloud will make it more true. “Really.”

Matsukawa studies him for a moment, Hanamaki feeling awkward under the direct scrutiny. Even though this man has seen him naked and at his most vulnerable, somehow in this moment is when Hanamaki feels the most exposed.

“He assaulted you,” Mastukawa states plainly, tone soft and almost cautious. “That was sexual harassment, _assault_ , you know that, right?”

Hanamaki swallows with a nod. “Yes.”           

There’s a heavy pause and then, “Okay,” Matsukawa says.

Hanamaki frowns. “That’s it?”

“That’s it for tonight,” Matsukawa answers turning back towards the still open door. “You’re upset. You need a shower and sleep.”

For some unknown reason Hanamaki feels his heart start to thud against his chest. “You’re leaving?” he asks, his voice sounding bizarrely panicked in his own head.

Matsukawa turns back with a look of honest surprise. “Do you want me to stay?”

 _Does he?_ Just a few minutes ago he’d reamed the man out in the middle of the sidewalk. He’d told him in no uncertain terms that they weren’t a _thing_ and as desperately inaccurate as that was in Hanamaki’s heart, it’s what his fear and insecurity had blurted out, right in Matsukawa’s face.

Would Matsukawa even _want_ to stay at this point?

“Yeah,” Hanamaki confirms pointedly. “I do.”

Not a second, not a heartbeat goes by and Matsukawa has turned back around to toe off his shoes. “Alright,” he hums casually.

Even though this is exactly what Hanamaki wants (right?) he can’t help feeling a bit blindsided. “Really?” he says, feeling stupid again like he had at the gallery in front of his newest (and now probably _only_ ) client.

Matsukawa smiles at him and it’s so warm that it makes Hanamaki take an involuntary step backwards. “Yes really, idiot,” he answers like nothing uncomfortable has transpired between them tonight at all. “Go shower. Do you want tea?”

And suddenly Matsukawa is back to taking care of him again, but this time around Hanamaki can’t bring himself to protest. His eyes blink towards the kitchen. “Can you make cocoa? I think there’s some in the pantry.”

“Alright,” Matsukawa hums again, sounding a bit indulgent. He brushes past Hanamaki and tugs at the back of his shirt, pulling it halfway loose from his slacks before sauntering into the tiny kitchen.

Hanamaki feels himself flush for no conceivable reason and then shuffles towards the bathroom in order to wash away that feeling of disgust from his body as fast as possible. Hopefully he’ll be able to replace it fast with something much different and much more appealing now with Matsukawa there to take care of him.

* * *

In the end, like Hanamaki had previously hoped for through the hot steam of his shower, their half-drunk cocoa ends up cold, sitting abandoned on the nightstand.

Maybe he should be more concerned for the fate of his career over his superior’s uncouth actions, or his mental state, or people’s reactions should anyone other than his friends find out. But for now all Hanamaki can think about are Matsukawa’s hands on his body, and somehow that seems to be therapy enough for now.

Matsukawa’s strokes are slow and agonizing, but still it hadn’t taken long for Hanamaki’s hips to start trembling uncontrollably. He leans into the pillow supporting his head, back arching with the movement, arching into his peak, but then fingers grasp tightly at the base of his cock and Hanamaki all but screams.             “Not yet,” Matsukawa murmurs, and it’s so very reminiscent of that almost-forgotten wet dream that it has Hanamaki shivering beneath the heat of Matsukawa’s naked body.

Hanamaki’s hips move up and down in little aborted movements as he tries so desperately to chase his orgasm, but Matsukawa’s grip holds fast if not also incredibly carefully. The dominating touch is actually almost gentle and the juxtaposition startles Hanamaki back down from his denied release.

“Fuck,” he gasps out, breathless. “ _Please_.”

“Are you asking, _or_ —” Matsukawa doesn’t finish the taunting question, smirk playing attractively at his full lips, and he doesn’t need to.

Hanamaki actually manages to let out a laugh at the other man’s candid efforts at their usual canon banter. “Issei, I need you to fucking _fuck_ me already.”

“I know what you need, Hiro,” Matsukawa says without missing a beat. “And it’s not quite that.”

“Huh—” but Hanamaki’s question is interrupted as he finds himself flipped easily onto his stomach, Matsukawa adjusting his position above him, and for a second his muscles tense in anticipation of a hard, fast palm against his ass. What he doesn’t expect is a warm, wet tongue licking broadly against his hole.

Matsukawa kneads at the flesh of Hanamaki’s ass when he flinches at the unexpected touch, spreading him and flicking his tongue against Hanamaki’s rim. He pulls away only when Hanamaki tries to protest.

“Relax, Hiro,” he says, admonishing. His deep voice vibrates against Hanamaki’s sensitive flesh. “Whether you think so or not, sometimes you need to be taken care of.”

Hanamaki flinches at his words this time, rather than Matsukawa’s mouth sucking him in and giving him the filthiest of kisses, but he can’t help the odd swell of his heart or the fissures spidering out across his resolve.

His fingers twist in the sheets beneath him, unable to keep himself from pushing back into that warm mouth. Hanamaki can barely think, let alone really remember what all the tension now melting out of his muscles had been from in the first place. Matsukawa’s tongue delves forward, thrusting experimentally. The groan that falls from Hanamaki’s chest mixed with the wet sounds of that tongue opening him up is obscene, but even as it echoes through the room neither seem to notice.

When Matsukawa finally reaches forward to the half-open nightstand drawer trailing wet kisses up Hanamaki’s side he turns to watch the man with glassy eyes.

“How do you want me?” Hanamaki asks, very much out-of-breath.

Matsukawa observes him as he pulls back to toss a condom and lube on the bed next to him. “Whatever you want. This is about y—”

“About us,” Hanamaki interrupts, not entirely sure why. “This is about _us_.”

After a beat of understanding Matsukawa concedes, tapping Hanamaki’s hip. Hanamaki flips immediately, back bouncing against the mattress and coming face to face with Matsukawa, nowhere to hide away now, as the man gently slots his thighs under Hanamaki’s knees.

It’s not that they haven’t fucked missionary like this before. In fact they’ve done lots of debauched things face to face like this, but somehow this time feels different. This time Matsukawa stares down at him, wholly focused, and doesn’t let Hanamaki look away even as he prods at his entrance with a cool, slick finger.

Hanamaki tries, he really does, but he can’t bare to keep still at this point. He grinds down, trying desperately to get Matsukawa to move faster, but the demand dies on his tongue when Matsukawa meets his gaze with a knowing sort of look and clamps a palm against his trembling hip, moving even slower now than before.

“Relax,” Matsukawa murmurs again, but the word is clearly a command no matter the tone.

Hanamaki does his best to obey, but when a second finger is added and Matsukawa curls them with expert precision he can’t stop his body from thrusting upward into nothing but air. Hanamaki whines, but Matsukawa continues to rub insistently at his prostate, leaning forward to place open-mouthed kisses against his chest.

He tongues at the bar in Hanamaki’s right nipple, pulling back to breathe warm air against the pink flesh. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, the words tickling and surprising Hanamaki in more ways than one.

“Shouldn’t that be—” he gasps out, much more winded than he’d anticipated. “— _my_ line?”

Matsukawa’s fingers pull back only to dive in again with more force, but still a pinpoint accuracy that has Hanamaki whimpering. “Just listen, Hiro,” he says, moving on to the man’s other nipple, worrying it between his teeth before continuing. “You’re incredible, hilarious, gorgeous and talented. I can’t believe you _ever_ doubted yourself.”

That's not something _just friends_ say to each other, he thinks blankly. In fact, none of this is at all what Hanamaki had been expecting of their night together. He’d imagined fast, hot, heavy sex; something to tear away the memories from earlier, something with little feeling attached. He’d imagined Matsukawa’s anger from the gallery channeled into something possessive and dominant, something Hanamaki thought he needed, desperately.

Something he thought he needed up until now, that is.

_Whether you think so or not, sometimes you need to be taken care of._

Hanamaki’s body quakes with a shiver and it’s got nothing to do with Matsukawa gently removing his fingers to reach for the condom next to Hanamaki’s head. It’s got nothing to do with the way the man rolls it on with ease or how he cages Hanamaki in with his powerful arms. It’s got nothing to do with how their coupled breath fogs up the man’s crooked glasses or the chaste kiss Matsukawa places at the corner of his mouth just before he pushes in.

It takes a while until he’s finally seated, hips meeting Hanamaki’s backside with a soft smack of skin on skin. The movement is so slow, so cautious that it has Hanamaki nearly twitching, but all he can bring himself to do is stare up at Matsukawa’s features, the man so concentrated on _not_ hurting him, on _not_ rushing things.

Hanamaki’s lungs feel stifled as he reaches up without hesitation to pull the glasses from Matsukawa’s nose. He tosses them a safe enough distance away from them and watches the man blink down at him in some type of mixture between embarrassment and confusion.

Hanamaki leans forward to suck Matsukawa’s lower lip into his mouth, the roughest action they’ll share tonight, and at that Matsukawa finally starts to move his hips. The thrusts are as soft as Hanamaki had anticipated, but Matsukawa angles each one with a comprehensive knowledge of Hanamaki’s body that in itself is entirely arousing.

“I’ve always been jealous of you,” Matsukawa says against Hanamaki’s lips, voice steadier than it should have been and suddenly Hanamaki feels very much caught, pulling back slightly in search of an ulterior motive in Matsukawa’s gaze.

But Matsukawa just continues to fuck into him, words slowly unraveling from his tongue as Hanamaki fights back gasps with each thrust. “You’re unapologetic—in the best way—and you know how to talk to people. You’re a social butterfly, as cliché as it is to say, but you can’t see how much people like you, are drawn to you for just being who you are.” Hanamaki stares as Matsukawa hesitates. His arms are shaking a bit from where they’re locked above Hanamaki’s shoulders. “You say you’re not confident, but you’ve never let the world see you that way before.”

There’s a question hanging on Matsukawa’s tongue that Hanamaki can feel all the way through to his bones. _So why now?_

“I thought I was—” Hanamaki bites out around a groan. “—self-deprecating?”

“You are, but you never used to be,” Matsukawa pants out, shaking his head and angling his hips. “And, in case you haven’t noticed, it bothers me immensely.”

Despite the conversation Hanamaki’s hand reaches for his aching cock, but Matsukawa beats him to it. “I can’t just stop—”

“I know,” Matsukawa breathes, stroking him firmly. “But can I at least try to help?”

Hanamaki twitches in his hand and his mind feels on the edge of tipping, though he’s not sure into what. “Issei, please just keep fucking me,” he begs, despite a different set of words clinging to the tip of his tongue.

And without hesitation Matsukawa does, but it’s still just as soft and slow as it was a minute ago. He moves now to wrap his free hand behind Hanamaki’s neck, cradling his head and their eyes still have not broken contact, though it’s foggier now than before. Somehow, even with Hanamaki’s mind swirling, it’s all enough.

Matsukawa catches his resulting cries with a kiss and Hanamaki is glad, because the action gives him more time to blink back a few traitorous tears before Matsukawa can see them fall.


	8. get drunk on the good life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So are you and Mastukawa a thing?”_   
>  _“Watari, you can’t just ask things like that!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be longer, but for pacing's sake I had to cut and divide things in a different way than I'd originally planned. So the good news is that Chapter 9 is now a third of the way finished right off the bat. Also, I can't even believe it, but there's only two chapters left!

Okay, so maybe Matsukawa has his own insecurities.

Sure, that makes sense, no one’s without them in some capacity or other. And maybe Hanamaki had made him out to be this confident, no-fucks-given charmer of an asshole in his own head, but Matsukawa has every right to be jealous of _him_ , right? Except Hanamaki still can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that even though he’s managed to close himself off over the years, becoming ‘bitter and unlovable’ and whatever other bullshit Oikawa tries to poke at him with, that Matsukawa would think to say things like ‘you’re unapologetic—in the best way’ and ‘you can’t see how much people like you.’

Obviously Hanamaki has friends, (albeit the meddling and annoying with the best of intentions kind of friends) but friends nonetheless. But, going off of what had been ultimately found-out through that emotion-fueled fuck last night, did that mean Matsukawa thought of himself as friendless? As un-likeable?

 _What are friends for?_ Matsukawa had said that morning in the bathroom.

 _You’re incredible,_ he’d said fucking into him slowly, like he was porcelain.

Scrubbing at his itching eyes, Hanamaki shuffles his way into the kitchen, these thoughts (among several others) slowly digesting his brain and clogging up his focus, until he’s hit with the strong scent of steaming black coffee and a shirtless Matsukawa hovering over his stove.

For a second Hanamaki doesn’t move, just taking in the scene before him. Matsukawa hasn’t noticed him yet and Hanamaki takes advantage by watching the way the man’s back muscles move sinuously beneath his skin as he works with whatever’s sizzling in the pan, the way Hanamaki can see each and every breath he takes if he looks closely enough.

“Morning,” Matsukawa murmurs, interrupting Hanamaki’s unapologetic ogling. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t been as stealthy as he’d thought.

Hanamaki stumbles a bit, flustered for no reason. Matsukawa still has yet to turn around so there’s no way he could’ve seen him staring or the new pink tint to his cheeks, but still. “What are you doing?” he blurts out even as he stares at the obvious mugs and dishes littering his kitchen counter.

“Making breakfast,” Matsukawa says turning towards him with a look of much-too-affectionate amusement. “You _do_ eat breakfast don’t you?”

Hanamaki’s head nods on auto-pilot, still trying to break through the swirling mass of thoughts and emotions he’d woken up with. “Yeah, sorry. I just meant—don’t you have to work?”

“I’ve got a few minutes,” comes Matsukawa’s vague answer as he turns back to what appears to be a delightfully fluffy looking omelet. “Are _you_ planning on going into work today?”

“Work?” Hanamaki squints before the underlying implication clicks along with a few too many sickening memories. “Oh. I don’t know. I guess not, huh?”

Matsukawa hums something noncommittal. “Well, I’ll go out on a limb here and say you’re probably not fired.”

“Yeah.” Hanamaki says lamely, stepping forward with the sudden need to do something with his hands. He approaches the steaming coffee pot with jerky movements. “I just don’t know exactly how I’m going to handle all this shit, ya know?”

 _He_ knows he’s not just talking about his grimy boss. He’s not entirely certain if Matsukawa has picked up on that or not.

Matsukawa lifts the hot skillet over to a waiting plate. “I know.”

Hanamaki watches him slide the omelet into place with practiced precision, setting the pan back on the burner. “So you’re still not going to make me talk about it?”

“No,” Matsukawa says simply. He picks up the plate and motions Hanamaki over towards the countertop, kicking a stool out with his foot. “Talk about it when you’re ready. When you want to, Hiro.”

Hanamaki isn’t sure he’s ever going to be ready to talk abut this with Matsukawa—or anyone for that matter—but he finds some comfort in the man’s casual demeanor.

As Hanamaki sits, twirling a fork between his fingertips, he watches Matsukawa pour himself his own mug of coffee before shuffling to join him at the counter opposite. Hanamaki continues to watch, even as his stomach rumbles reproachfully up at him, as Matsukawa blows carefully at the scalding liquid, steam clawing and clinging its way up to the lenses of his glasses until the man’s eyes are entirely hidden by an opaque layer of fog.

Hanamaki snorts in amusement, but Matsukawa seems mostly unfazed until, with little regard to reason, Hanamaki finds himself reaching to poke the pad of his finger against the moisture. He pulls back immediately, swiping a line into the dewy steam when Matsukawa jerks away from the unexpected gesture, full mug swaying dangerously in his grip.

“Sorry,” Hanamaki blurts immediately, shaking his head at the odd compulsion to reach out and mark the other lense as well.

As the steam begins to lift, Matsukawa blinks back at him, unsure even as his mouth twitches with the barest hints of a smile.

To fight against his incomprehensible urge to do more damage, Hanamaki reaches forward again, this time grabbing at the arms of Matsukawa’s glasses to tug them gently from the man’s nose. Matsukawa blinks again, though now for an entirely different reason.

Hanamaki wipes the glasses with the edge of his shirt, probably not doing them any service other than smudging them even more than he already had. But it’s the thought that counts and, even as Matsukawa squints across the counter at him, Hanamaki attempts to prove his attempts were worthwhile as he slips the glasses onto his own nose without much second thought.

What he gets in return is a blurred mess of dark, sleep-mussed curls and eyes still narrowed in his direction, but Matsukawa’s small, crooked smile is pretty hard to miss, even with the slight throb the prescription causes behind Hanamaki’s eyes.

“Issei,” he mutters, “Just how blind are you?”

When he pulls the glasses away, Hanamaki blinks back his normal vision until he can see Matsukawa properly again and he realizes that he’d missed something a second ago, hidden by the wobbly sight provided by the glasses he slides back across the counter.

Matsukawa is _blushing_ —a deep red hue that Hanamaki’s not sure he’s ever seen come through the man’s already sun-darkened skin. Even with his slight squint, Matsukawa is staring Hanamaki down with unforgiving precision, something almost awed in his expression. The whole thing has Hanamaki floundering and averting his own gaze to hide his fluster at the attention.

Reaching for his glasses, Matsukawa returns them slowly to their perch. “Thank you,” he says, inexplicably.

Hanamaki shrugs a shoulder and almost laughs because he himself had been a living embodiment of cause and effect for the whole stupid thing. “Don’t thank me,” he scoffs with no actual scorn. “It was my own faul—”

His words stutter-stop when he finally looks up to meet Matsukawa’s now entirely focused eyes again.

Matsukawa is still blushing, possibly deeper now, and holy shit Hanamaki likes him so much—so much that he might actually say it, admit it out loud, say that he believes it’s really L-O-V—

“Hiro?” Matsukawa interrupts before Hanamaki’s traitorous brain can finish literally spelling it out.

“ _Fault_ ,” Hanamaki says, the word falling out of his mouth with extra emphasis on the ending consonant this time. “My own fault,” he repeats, unable to stop.

Matsukawa brightens and his flush starts to fade and Hanamaki wants so desperately to photograph this moment, fold it and keep it forever in his pocket; a memory, an image for him and him alone to covet.

“It’s fine,” Matsukawa hums, gesturing to the plate growing cold in front of Hanamaki. “Are you going to eat?”

Hanamaki starts, eyes jerking anywhere but Matsukawa’s cheeks, now entirely without a hint of telling rose or crimson. “Y-yes,” he stutters. “Thank you for the food.”

He eats slowly, listening to Matsukawa’s schedule for the day and the way he sips his coffee and when he reads the weather report from his phone. Hanamaki decides, emphatically between the projected low and chance in precipitation, that it’s the best breakfast he’s ever had.

* * *

“I have to tell you something,” Hanamaki says, breathing slightly labored as he stands before Iwaizumi and Oikawa in the park, all three of their faces flushed with the morning chill and the mile-and-half run already under their belts.

Hanamaki recites the straightforward explanation in his head one last time just for good measure as they rest by the water fountain, but when the words spill out and pick up more speed than they had in his mind he starts to think maybe now, out in such a public and open place, was not exactly the best venue to confess the abrupt exit from the gallery two nights previous.

Hanamaki can barely get out a reassuring “I’m okay, though,” before Iwaizumi is turning on his heel with a growl, runners stomping against the pavement.

Oikawa’s features are still open with surprise and concern when he calls after him. “Iwa-chan, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to kill him,” Iwaizumi throws over his shoulder, matter-of-fact and neck already burning red with anger.

Hanamaki snaps out of it then, jogging forward to latch onto Iwaizumi’s scarily flexed bicep. “Slow down there, ace,” he laughs, without any actual humor. “As much as I appreciate you defending my honor and everything, I don’t really think going to jail and leaving me alone with this one is going to solve anything.” He hooks a thumb at a huffing Oikawa for emphasis. “Besides, Matsukawa already knocked enough sense into him for all of us. Have you ever seen his right cross? Holy shit.”

Iwaizumi stops, almost immediately deflating when he sees Hanamaki’s plea is genuine. His scowl softens into a frown. “You seem to be taking this pretty well then.”

Hanamaki shrugs, averting his eyes to a tuft of browning grass beneath his toe. “I won’t lie and say I don’t feel like throwing up anytime I think about it, but I’m trying not to dwell.”

Oikawa’s voice is warm behind his shoulder, though surprisingly timid. “Makki, if you need anything—”

But Hanamaki just brushes him off with a flick of his hand as he turns in order to face them both again. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly, spending the night with Matsukawa there really helped. I’m alright now, okay?”

Iwaizumi and Oikawa share a knowing glance before Oikawa gives him a soft, genuine smile. “Okay,” he agrees.

“So,” Iwaizumi hesitates, rubbing awkwardly at his neck and letting Hanamaki know exactly what’s coming before he even continues speaking. “Are you and Matsukawa okay then?”

Hanamaki swipes a hand against his sweat-damp shirt. “Of course,” he tries to say nonchalantly. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“It’s just that—” Oikawa hesitates in his answer, biting his lip and looking to Iwaizumi for help.

“It was tense between you two after we left,” Iwaizumi says bluntly. “Knowing what happened helps put things in perspective, but—”

“But you just seemed so angry!” Oikawa continues Iwaizumi’s thought like a flash. “We just wanted to make sure you were—that you were still—”

“What? Together?” Hanamaki scoffs. “Not like we were _together_ in the first place.”

It’s not Hanamaki’s fault that he caves almost immediately after such a self-deprecating thought, but it seems Oikawa’s kicked-puppy expression has somehow only gotten better over the years.

He sighs, “We’re fine, still friends. Don’t worry.”

Iwaizumi grunts his understanding and then drives an elbow into Oikawa’s side earning him a squawk. “Thanks for telling us,” he says, not drudging anything else up, to Hanamaki’s appreciation. He slaps his hands together before starting into a jog. “Now, another couple miles should do it for today, yeah?”

Oikawa and Hanamaki share a slightly exaggerated groan before resignedly following after.

* * *

Because he is neither a personal trainer like Iwaizumi nor quite as vain when it comes to personal physique as Oikawa, Hanamaki insists on ending their morning conglomeration of cardio and confessions at a coffee shop that also happens to excel in the pastry department.

Hanamaki watches his friends watching him over cups of iced coffee, the plate of profiteroles between them having only been indulged in by his own personal sweet tooth so far.

“I don’t think it was me just being bitter or jealous all this time,” he says, very carefully, between bites. “I think it was me being—sort of _unhappy_.” The word _depressed_ clings to his tongue, but doesn’t quite feel right to say out loud.

Oikawa gives him _that_ look, the one between irritated and pitying. “We know, Makki.”

Hanamaki looks to Iwaizumi for his own response, but the man just averts his eyes, which in and of itself is confirmation enough.

Something boils within him, but it’s not quite anger. “Then why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

“We did,” Iwaizumi says now, still not looking up. “You just never bothered to listen.”

Hanamaki openly sputters, jaw hanging as he stares at them in disbelief. In any other situation it might have been a comical, even over-exaggerated display. But in this moment he felt well and truly _stupid_.

“Do you think—” Oikawa continues, hesitating oddly. “Do you think maybe you were _unhappy_ over Matsukawa leaving?”

Hanamaki’s at least grateful for the mutual faltering around the vocabulary being presented here, but still he can’t bring himself to totally lay everything out in the open. “I don’t know,” he answers firmly, but without any hint of actual resolve.

“Well, do you feel that way now?” Oikawa pushes. “Do you still feel sad now with Matsukawa back?”

“No—I don’t really feel that way anymore.” Hanamaki licks at a bit of confectioners sugar on his thumb, thinking. “No, it’s something else now.”

Oikawa fits him with an exasperated expression “Makki, it’s lo—”

Iwaizumi nudges nearly his whole body weight into Oikawa’s shoulder, effectively cutting off his outburst and nearly toppling him and his chair to the floor. “Have you talked to Matsukawa about this?” he says in lieu of helping to balance his flailing fiancé.

Hanamaki eyes the squawking Oikawa pointedly, but responds to Iwaizumi with a sheepish shrug. “Um, sort of.” It’s not exactly a lie, is it?

When he finally rights himself, Oikawa pushes into Iwaizumi’s space and leans over the table to face Hanamaki with a furtive look and curious eyes. “So are you and Mattsun like _together_ now?” he whispers.

The question, as invasive as it is, doesn’t quite bug Hanamaki like it probably should have. “I don’t know,” he shrugs again. “We didn’t really get into it.”

“You should ask him,” Oikawa says and even before he’s quite finished speaking Iwaizumi is already rolling his eyes. “Right now.”

“What?” Hanamaki scoffs, voice a little higher than he would’ve liked. “I can’t just text him and be like ‘anyway sorry for being so gay and bitter, but like are we a thing now?’”

Oikawa looks genuinely confused and if it weren’t such a cute expression on the man, Hanamaki might have been half tempted to smack it off. “Why not?”            

Hanamaki grits his teeth, reaching for his phone but only so Oikawa doesn’t get anymore _funny_ ideas. “No way, that’s horrible advice.”

“It’s not horrible, it’s _friendly_ advice, Makki,” Oikawa pouts. “Besides, I bet Mattsun would appreciate you being straight with him.”

“ _Straight?_ Really?” Iwaizumi smirks, surprising the both of them. It takes Oikawa all of two seconds to fall against the man’s shoulder as horrendous, wheezing laughter bubbles out of his mouth.

“You’re stupid friends,” Hanamaki glares across the table at them. “Both of you.”

“ _Best_ friends,” Oikawa insists between gasps and giggles, ignoring the jab, and this time Hanamaki doesn’t argue.

* * *

The first nightmare comes when Hanamaki doesn’t have a warm chest and arms to burrow into.

It’s not particularly horrifying or graphic as nightmares sometimes tend to be. No one’s chasing him down dark alleyways or threatening him with suspiciously bloodied weapons.

Instead he’s in the storage closet with Nakahara-san, empty frames and canvases covered in plastic and muslin lining the walls. It’s surprisingly dusty compared to the rest of the pristine gallery; something about the musty air seeps into Hanamaki’s lungs and makes him feel weak, like he’s slowly suffocating. Or perhaps it’s not the air at all, but Nakahara-san’s breath on his neck, trailing up his jaw, lingering too long over his lips. He’s drowning in nothing but air and proximity.

When Hanamaki blinks open his eyes to stare at the dark-blurred image of his ceiling he cannot stop his lungs from nearly seizing with the gasp they pull in. Sucking in breath after breath he pulls himself from the dregs of his nightmare, clawing and kicking at his bed sheets until he’s sitting upright, firmly planted in the realm of the living, in his apartment, in his own room again.

The worst part, he realizes after rubbing hands over the damp sheen of sweat clinging to his neck and chest, shivering uncontrollably, is that the nightmare had not even been a dream. It had been a memory.

* * *

“Did you get any sleep last night?” a voice murmurs above him, the mellow tone laced with concern telling him exactly who it is before Hanamaki’s gaze even gets a chance to pull away from the piece he’d been laser focused on under his desk lamp. When he does break his focus to look up he meets Matsukawa, the man leaning against the parlor’s front counter for an unknown amount of time, and the look on his face reads far easier than his words do: _‘You look terrible. What happened? Tell me so I know how to help.’_

Hanamaki considers telling Matsukawa about _why_ he’s carrying heavy, purple bags under his eyes and _why_ he’s been awake since 3 AM. Instead he says, “What are you doing here, Issei?”

It comes out a little ruder than Hanamaki had anticipated, but Matsukawa doesn’t seem phased, which seems to be pretty standard with the guy. Hanamaki aught to count his zero-filter-self lucky.

“I thought we could go to lunch,” Matsukawa answers easily. “I’ve got an hour. Hour and a half if I say the trains were running late on my way back.”

The inherent need to classify this as a ‘friend lunch’ or a ‘date lunch’ actively forces its way into Hanamaki’s mind, but he caps his pen and stands despite it and turns to the doorway leading to his manager’s office.

“I’m taking my lunch, Aki,” he calls to her, voice nearly echoing through the empty establishment. Wednesday afternoons were always slow.

A woman with violet hair rolls out on her desk chair, her fingers busy cleaning up a rotary tattoo gun but her eyes focused very much so past Hanamaki’s face and to the man standing behind the counter.

“Sure,” she says with a keen smile. “Don’t hurry back now.”

Hanamaki fights back his cringe at the tiny wink she reserves just for him. Is it possible that she can classify this lunch better than he can himself?

If Matsukawa can read the air, he doesn’t comment and once again Hanamaki counts himself lucky.

Together they walk to a small, out of the way place where they order matcha and soba and crispy pork belly. While waiting they share a plate of briny eggplant and pickled ginger and plums that have Hanamaki’s nose stinging.

They start out easily enough with simple conversation. What piece had Hanamaki been working on, what were his clients typically like, was he going to be able to pick up more work at the tattoo shop now that his job at the gallery had become null and void.

“Have you thought about how you’re going to handle Nakahara?” Matsukawa asks, soft and not pressing too hard, but expecting an answer just the same.

Hanamaki knew it was coming, but he still has to remember to school his features and breathe properly. “I’m going to ensure myself a nice severance package and hopefully never run into the guy ever, _ever_ again,” he says with a bite that nearly catches his own tongue.

Matsukawa nods, chewing thoughtfully. “And what of your artwork?”

Hanamaki’s shoulder lifts. “I can’t justify taking them out of the collection. It took me long enough to ever get something of mine on _any_ wall, even if it does belong to a scumbag. If someone’s interested I’ll have him pass along my personal information.”

He’d thought long and hard about it, or at least as long as he could think about it before he started to feel sick to his stomach. But, in the end, tearing down his pieces seemed more detrimental to his own career than it did to Nakahara-san’s. The man would get his eventually, karmic balance and all that stuff Iwaizumi harped on from time to time.

“You’re keeping a level head,” Matsukawa says and it’s vague, but Hanamaki can tell that he’s testing the waters.

“Yeah, I—” Hanamaki hesitates, as his mind takes him in an opposite direction than he was originally headed. “Thanks—for everything.”

Matsukawa inclines his head again and doesn’t ask for the specifics on what ‘everything’ could possibly be denoting at this point. Hanamaki almost finds the urge to laugh, because the whole thing is so ridiculous. What are they supposed to do, just read between the lines for the rest of forever?

 _Impossible_ , his mind tells him. Forever is a very long time to assume.

He thinks about what Oikawa said; about being straight with Matsukawa, about being honest. He’s not sure if he’s meant to be honest with Matsukawa or honest with himself at this point.

“Remember that time you kissed me back in high school?” Hanamaki’s not sure where the hell that came from, but it’s a start at least.

Despite the abruptness Matsukawa hums a meager recollection. “I thought it was the other way around.”

“No, no, _you_ definitely kissed _me_.” Hanamaki’s finger jabs through the air across the table. “I remember because it was my first.”

“Ah, yep,” Matsukawa smirks. “ _Now_ I remember.”

“Hey, it wasn’t _that_ bad.” The pout on his lips is reminiscent of Oikawa, but at this point he doesn’t even bother to care.

“I never said it was bad, Hiro,” Matsukawa answers frankly, though his eyes sparkle behind his glasses.

“Well anyways,” Hanamaki says, trying his best to skirt around the realization that Matsukawa’s expression has him hankering to lean in and kiss that stupidly cute grin right off his lips. “I dunno, I’ve always felt a little guilty, like I was pretty fucking selfish about it actually.”

“Takahiro,” Matsukawa actually gasps, placing a hand over his chest. “Were you just _using_ me?”

Hanamaki snorts, but can’t hide his blush. “Kind of, I guess,” he replies, swiping a hand across the imaginary tickle on the back of his neck. “I didn’t really want to go off to university without having kissed anyone, ya know?”

“And you thought, ‘damn Matsukawa’s pretty hot so why not give him my make-out virginity?’”

“Okay, first of all—fact check. It was one kiss, Issei, _not_ a make-out sesh.” Hanamaki points a sharp finger at him again, still biting back his amusement. “And second of all—yes, that’s exactly what I thought. You were a safe bet.”

Matsukawa blinks. “I’m flattered, honestly.”

“Okay, whether you’re being real or not, you really should be flattered,” Hanamaki answers. “I mean that just goes to show how much I trusted you.”

“And now?” Matsukawa says a heartbeat later.

Hanamaki blinks this time, thrown entirely off kilter. “What?”

“Do you trust me now, Hiro?”

It’s not that he needs any time to think about it at all. It’s just that Hanamaki can’t quite get his mouth working quick enough to make his response as emphatic as it feels, bursting inside his own head. “ _Of course_ ,” he finally manages to push off of his tongue with as much vehemence as he can muster.

The few precious seconds of extra silence between them doesn’t seem to phase Matsukawa who simply flicks a hand up to signal their waitress for the check. Hanamaki watches the man’s lips tug slowly but surely into a smile all the while.

It only takes four minutes and the walk from their table, out the restaurant’s creaky front door, and about one block down the street until Matsukawa grips his wrist with so much gentleness behind the dominant gesture and pulls him into a narrow alleyway.

“Romantic,” Hanamaki croaks out, the sarcasm pretty much dying on his tongue as he tilts his head to meet Matsukawa’s gaze.

Matsukawa smirks down at him, that smile from earlier coming to full fruition. The purpose with which the man watches him sends a shiver of excitement over Hanamaki’s skin, seeping into his muscles and forcing his body lax until his back hits the wind-chilled brick of the wall behind him.

There is a part of him, a deep-seeded part that tells Hanamaki that he aught to feel sick, feel terrified with his body pressed to a wall and a hand still lingering at his wrist, lips hovering close to his own.

But—he doesn’t.

“Is this okay?” Matsukawa murmurs and Hanamaki can tell, knows wholeheartedly that the man before him will pull away the second he says _no_. And he appreciates that, in fact he _loves_ that, but—

“Yeah—yes, it’s okay. _I’m_ okay,” Hanamaki stutters, gasps. _It’s okay because it’s you,_ he holds back with a bite against his cheek.

Matsukawa seals their mouths together and Hanamaki opens instantly to him. It’s different than the last time they’d kissed like this, wrapped deep in each other’s arms, soft and heavy and slow. This time it’s faster, Matsukawa’s fingers pinning Hanamaki’s arm to the wall as if to ground them both, while Hanamaki’s other hand finds its way into the dark curls at Matsukawa’s neck. He tugs and they both groan and Hanamaki’s cock twitches in his too-tight jeans when Matsukawa’s grip on his wrist tightens to nearly-bruising.

Matsukawa licks into his mouth and Hanamaki meets him, thrusting his hips forward in automatic response. Matsukawa huffs out a gasp and Hanamaki catches his lower lip between his teeth, sucking and tugging until the other man meets his thrust and the contact, even with the layers of clothing between them, has Hanamaki’s legs quivering to stay upright.

It’s too much and not enough all at once. Hanamaki’s teeth clench around a moan and Matsukawa traces the seam between Hanamaki’s lips with his tongue. The fist in Matsukawa’s hair loosens and when Hanamaki’s eyes finally peel back open he finds dark ones studying him fiercely. They’re so close, mouths not touching, but close enough that Hanamaki can nearly count each individual lash threatening to press and curl against the lenses of Matsukawa’s glasses, close enough that he can feel each warm breath tangle with his own in the chill of the air surrounding them.

“Better than the first kiss?”

Hanamaki’s vision is fuzzy as he stares up at Matsukawa. “Yeah,” he breathes. Better than the first kiss, hell probably better than _any_ kiss.

 _What is this? What are we doing?_ his mind shouts, practically shrieks inside his skull.

Matsukawa can’t hear it though, even when he presses his forehead to Hanamaki’s own for no reason other than to lessen the already minuscule distance between them.

In the end he doesn’t ask, because asking might hasten the end and right now he’s content to keep assuming and keep hoping that he’s right.

* * *

Not asking apparently doesn’t stop other people from not asking.

“So are you and Mastukawa a _thing_?”

Hanamaki finds himself sipping overpriced alcohol at whatever weird hybrid bachelor party/bridal shower nonsense Oikawa has cooked up, with Watari staring at him unapologetically and Yahaba pretending like he’s not subtly trying to squirm himself into Kyoutani’s lap across the table.

“Watari, you can’t just ask things like that!” Yahaba gasps, sounding entirely too scandalized seeing as the question has obviously been resting on the edge of everyone’s minds (including Hanamaki’s) for some time now.

Hanamaki mulls over the few other ideas he’s got up his sleeve for the evening, but he’s fairly sure none of them are quite drunk enough for _those_ certain activities quite yet. Unfortunate—especially considering the new topic of conversation.

“Why not?” Watari says with such genuine innocence that Hanamaki can’t help the laugh that escapes his mouth.

“Yes, why not, Yahaba-kun?” comes a lilting voice from behind Hanamaki. “Everyone’s dying to know the answer aren’t they?”

Hanamaki immediately replaces his amusement with a scowl, turning on Oikawa with narrowed eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be off bugging that fiancé of yours or something?”

“And miss catching up with my favorite kouhai?” he simpers, swiping a finger at the tip of Hanamaki’s nose. “Besides, this is supposed to be something like a bachelor party isn’t it? It wouldn’t be fair if I monopolized all of Iwa-chan’s time.”

Hanamaki pulls away with a sharp glare, though the curiosity clear on everyone’s (including Oikawa’s) faces softens his annoyance inch by inch. “Oikawa,” he sighs. “This isn’t exactly the time or place—”

“How many times do you typically spend the night together a week?” Oikawa cuts him off with a knowing grin as he slides into the empty chair between Hanamaki and Watari with ease.

Hanamaki has a protest ready in his throat, but when all eyes turn to him (even _Kyoutani’s_ ) with genuine expectation he can’t help but to cave. “I don’t know, I haven’t exactly been keeping a running tally, you know.” He shrugs with a huff. “Maybe three or four nights?”

“That’s basically fifty percent,” Watari says with an appraising nod.

“Half the week?” Oikawa blurts, clearly surprised at the news. “That’s way more than even Iwa-chan and I spent together—you know, before I asked him to move in.”

“ _Asked_ him?” Yahaba scoffs with a cutting smirk. “More like blackmailed him—”

“Hush!” Oikawa bites, before turning back to Hanamaki with animatedly large eyes. “Makki, that’s a relationship if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Stop pushing the relationship card, Oikawa,” Hanamaki grumbles, sipping at his drink in order to do anything other than acknowledge that the man could possibly be right. “What, do you have a bet with your beloved or something?”

From the edge of his vision, Oikawa looks just the hint of guilty as charged, but doesn’t give a definitive answer. Hanamaki’s eyes roll skyward, feeling the exasperation and undeniable hope mixing awkwardly in his buzzing head. “We had sleepovers in high school all the time, just like everyone else.”

“That was high school,” Yahaba says. “It’s entirely different.”

“We slept over in high school—and we were _definitely_ dating, Shigeru.” There’s an undertone to Kyoutani’s snarked words and by the way it has Yahaba immediately flushing, Hanamaki doesn’t really want to know what the two are reminiscing on.

Oikawa waves a hand at the two, seeming unfazed by their charged eye contact. “Either way, it doesn’t matter—”

“You’re right, it doesn’t matter,” Hanamaki interjects. “Because Issei is back and we are finally friends again and there’s no way I’m rocking the boat just to let Iwaizumi win a bet I’m sure he’s going to win anyways.”

“Makki!” Oikawa whines through his nose, but Hanamaki’s not finished yet.

“And besides all that, this night is supposed to be about you. I can’t believe you’re actually putting gossip ahead of being the center of attention.”

“Hmm,” Oikawa taps at his chin. “You do have a point there. But still—”

“Nope,” Hanamaki says with a raised palm, before his resolve breaks and he can feel his shoulders melting. “Look, can I at least try and figure all this shit out first before we go making any hasty assumptions?”

 _Hello pot, my name’s kettle,_ Hanamaki’s mind mocks without remorse.

There’s a round of smirks and nods and then a weight is pressing itself against Hanamaki’s shoulder, but before he can move to shove Oikawa off the man is purring in his ear, “I think the answer’s pretty clear now, actually.”

Hanamaki’s gaze can’t help but to follow Oikawa’s fingers as they gesture towards the bar where Iwaizumi sits, grinning at something said to him by Kindaichi. But it’s not his fiancé that Oikawa’s locked his all-too-perceptive eyes on.

Matsukawa’s stare is palpable when Hanamaki finds it; his eyes soft, half-lidded behind his frames, lips tugging crookedly at one corner. He watches Hanamaki watching him with such ease and Hanamaki can’t really imagine that look being for anyone else in the room, in the city, in the entire world.

He hopes, for once, that Oikawa Tooru’s annoying and meddling intuition is right this time around.

* * *

It takes several more rounds of drinks and a slew of reminiscent stories, both endearing and embarrassing, for the night to really get going.

After the second or third shot and fourth or fifth uproar of horrendous cackling from their high top Iwaizumi and Matsukawa gravitate from their spot at the bar followed by Kunimi and Kindaichi.

Hanamaki finds Matsukawa’s eyes again from across the table they’d dragged over and smiles through a haze of intoxication and nostalgia. It’s almost just like old times back in high school, back to team bonding in Oikawa’s parent’s basement.

Only now he can hold his alcohol a bit better and he isn’t a virgin falling for his best friend.

Instead, now he feels like he’s just sort of— _falling_.

“Have you two seriously only been with each other? No one else?”

Hanamaki’s not really sure who voices the question, but it along with the accompanying giggles and curious looks, manages to snap him back to the present just in time to see both Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s cheeks flushing in sync.

Predictably, Iwaizumi clams up and Oikawa plasters on an over exaggerated expression. “What do you take me for?” he says with an upturned nose.

Yahaba immediately fixes him with a deadpan stare. “I can’t tell if you want us to assume you’re a slut or a cliché.”

Oikawa crumbles instantly. “Yahaba!” he whines, but the comment had managed to break through Iwaizumi’s own embarrassment, sending the man into uncontrollable laughter at fiancé’s expense.

Oikawa (also predictably) slaps at Iwaizumi’s shoulder with a scowl. “Iwa-chan, rude. You’re supposed to _defend_ me.”

This in turn just causes more snickering, from everyone now, and Oikawa deflates against Iwaizumi with a pout. No matter, Hanamaki and Matsukawa know the truth and he figures, amidst all the laughter and speculation so does everyone else. In fact, with a knowing glance between he and his co-conspirator, this turns out to be just the right time to bring up _those_ certain activities he’s got up his sleeve.

“Okay,” Hanamaki announces, loudly enough to be heard over the residual laughter and din of the bar. “Since apparently the two of you are so romantically clichéd, then you won’t mind a little bachelor party cliché either.”

Everyone sobers at this idea, riddling out the meaning, but Oikawa seems to sober the fastest. He turns to Hanamaki with a sharp glare. “Takahiro, _no_ ,” he scolds, eyes very knowing like he’s looked straight into the debauchery of Hanamaki’s mind.

“Tooru, _yes_ ,” he croons mockingly, ducking a bit behind Iwaizumi when it looks like Oikawa might just attack.

Iwaizumi, for what it’s worth, looks a bit suspicious as well, but doesn’t immediately grab Hanamaki in a headlock, so he takes that as a good sign.

He and Matsukawa had been planning this for a couple of weeks now, getting everyone else on board and managing to keep it a secret from their friends, even though neither seemed quite as surprised as they aught to have been. Were they _that_ predictable?

“Strippers,” Hanamaki says with a wide grin in lieu of any other explanation.

“Strip clubs,” Matsukawa elaborates, with a smile that seems to mirror Hanamaki’s own.

If they weren’t in the middle of their very important bachelor party secret scheme extravaganza Hanamaki might’ve jumped the table just to smear kisses all over Matsukawa’s face.  

“No,” Iwaizumi and Oikawa bark in unison, but they go willingly with their friend’s just the same.

* * *

It’s much later in the night when Hanamaki starts to realize his mistake in dragging Oikawa halfway across the city for one, clichéd lap dance.

They’ve enjoyed another round of drinks, the one clichéd lap dance, another few clichéd lap dances just for the hell of it, and now Hanamaki is watching a very sly, very determined looking Oikawa talking to a dancer across the room. The guy’s got dark curls and a cut body and Hanamaki is really starting to regret his life choices right about now.

Yahaba is absolutely zero fucking help, enjoying himself way too much and has probably been sexting Kyoutani all night for all Hanamaki knows. (And he really doesn’t want to know). Kunimi is too busy ignoring (or hating) everyone in his general vicinity to be of any assistance either. Watari’s his only hope, the only remotely sober one there, but it turns out that he’s even more an enabler than Yahaba.

Hanamaki comes to this unfortunate conclusion when he witnesses the younger man plying Oikawa with the cash that goes directly into the metallic g-string of that very-nearly naked stripper now sauntering his way.

He’s never had a lap dance before, but he imagines this is a pretty standard one.

If the guy had piercings and glasses and slightly broader shoulders he’d be a pretty spitting image of Matsukawa. Hanamaki’s not sure if that’s helping or hurting to imagine in his head, but it certainly makes his cheeks flush, especially when the guy rolls his hips and abs.

It’s the flash of a camera out of the corner of his eye that breaks Hanamaki from his treacherous imagination. He turns in time to watch Oikawa typing something but before he can say a word Oikawa grins wickedly over the top of his phone. Hanamaki’s not _that_ stupid; he knows exactly what’s been sent and whom it’s been sent to. He supposes, in some sort of twisted sense, this is Oikawa’s way of gaining back the upper hand.

Shit, he really should have seen that coming.

When the song ends and the dancer leaves his disheveled lap with a wink Hanamaki feels his own phone vibrate in his pocket.

He’s not entirely sure why, but when he reads the text he actually shivers.

_Meet me at your place in thirty minutes. Don’t be late._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, thanks to fxvixen for the inspiration for some of Hanamaki's dialogue when they sent me [this gem](http://luminera.tumblr.com/post/140133931421)  
> 


	9. hideaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Better than a lap dance?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's a lot going on in this chapter. Also I updated the tags a bit. (I can't believe there's only one more chapter o_o). Thank you again for all your love and support!

_"I’m not going to be able to come home over the holiday this year.”_

_"What?” Hanamaki frowned through the computer screen. They’d spent the last four New Year’s together, he’d never really given much thought to Matsukawa not being there with him and everyone else this year just because he was going to school in Spain. His frown deepened. “Issei—”_

_"I know, it fucking sucks,” Matsukawa interrupted hastily. “But my parents are insisting on visiting me here and they’ve planned an entire trip around it—actually I just found out about it this morning.”_

_He didn’t sound too pleased with the news and Hanamaki couldn’t exactly blame him. Matsukawa was lucky to have parents well-off enough to send him overseas for university, but he’d also grown up a latchkey kid in a stuffy household so very opposite Hanamaki’s own. In the end, it didn’t exactly surprise him to hear that Matsukawa’s parents had made such a decision without even consulting their son first._

_“Oh,” Hanamaki said in lieu of expressing an opinion he might regret. “Well, that’ll be nice, right?”_

_He watched Matsukawa’s eyes drop to something out of his webcam’s vision before responding, “Sure. It’ll be nice.”_

_"You’ll be home for the summer holidays, right?”_

_Matsukawa smiled softly, though his expression wasn’t exactly happy. “Actually, there’s an internship I’ve been looking at.”_

_“Oh,” Hanamaki said again, biting his tongue not to sound too disappointed. “That’s awesome. A journalism internship?”_

_“Photographic journalism, actually.” Matsukawa met his eyes again, this time having tamped down any disappointment that Hanamaki had seen forming a second ago._

_“That’s—that’s very cool,” Hanamaki said, hating how he’d fumbled over the words._

_It was obvious that Matsukawa could see right through him, but at this point Hanamaki didn’t really care to hide it anymore. “We’ll miss you,” he added, even though they both knew he really meant to say ‘I’ instead of ‘we.’_

_Matsukawa nodded, smiling and it’s faker than Oikawa’s own after they’d lost to Karasuno at the Spring High. It sent something vicious straight through Hanamaki’s chest, but he can’t bring himself to say anything else._

_“It’s not like I’m never coming back,” Matsukawa said, voice slightly off. “It just might take some time.”_

_There was something there that Hanamaki couldn’t quite decipher, something almost unspoken, but the hum of static through his computer cut it off before he could ask._

* * *

Okay, so Hanamaki hadn’t asked for the lap dance. No, seriously, he’d tried his damndest to stop it before it could ever begin. But there had been Oikawa, smirking from his seat across the way, disheveled and flushed but still with that scheming look plastered on his inebriated features—yes, if anyone was to blame about this, it was definitely Oikawa Tooru and his penchant for revenge.

But, as much as Hanamaki had been trying to explain this fact ever since he’d hurried home to find Matsukawa resting casually against his apartment door, he was finding that emoji laced text messages and grainy snapchats were sort of difficult to explain away. Hanamaki knows by now that his mind is a broken record player, but shit he is so going to kill Oikawa this time.

Hanamaki tugs experimentally at the tie (his _only_ tie, bubblegum pink no less) binding his wrists to the rod-iron of his headboard.

“You’re mad,” he says plainly, watching as Matsukawa kneels on the bed next to him. Hanamaki is naked, save for his briefs that leave nothing up to the imagination. This doesn’t really surprise him, even the light bondage, but the way Matsukawa looks at him with that unreadable expression; it’s got him flustered from head to toe.

Matsukawa’s voice is level and even. “I am not mad.”

“You’re—happy?” Hanamaki’s own voice lilts with a quirk of his brow and another tug at the tie.

“I’m happy that you’re in this bed right now,” Matsukawa answers after a beat, a telltale purr finally wrapping his words. He leans forward a little, putting his weight on a hand placed strategically next to Hanamaki’s chest. “With nowhere else to go.”

“Okay,” Hanamaki mumbles slowly, feeling like his tongue has gone numb. His hands are fists against the headboard and the binds holding him there only seem to grow tighter. He twists his wrists against them, relishing in the sensation, the pull, the helplessness.

“You looked really good in those pictures, Hiro.” Matsukawa’s warm breath slithers over the bars in his nipples. “Flushed, with someone grinding on top of you. _Aroused_.”

Hanamaki hisses, trying to keep his thoughts straight. “See that makes me think you’re mad—”

The words die on his tongue when Matsukawa casually reaches for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his head in one fluid motion to reveal those entirely unfair abs Hanamaki’s still not convinced aren’t some sort of optical illusion.

“I’m not mad. I promise,” Matsukawa says before leaning back in, this time caging Hanamaki in with an arm on either side of his head. “All I want is to be the one to make you look like that—right now in _your_ bed.” He lifts a bare leg to straddle Hanamaki, careful not to let any part of their bodies touch just yet. “Do you want that, Hiro?”

Yes, he wants it. Holy shit does he want it. But for whatever unbelievably poorly timed reason, Hanamaki’s brain cuts into overdrive and the questions that have been welling on his tongue all evening (read: ever since that first ice-breaking kiss) burst through the dam he’s been so painstakingly building all these months.

“Wait, Issei,” he pants out through gritted teeth, his last resort at stopping his mouth from producing anything other than a moan of pleasure. “There’s something I have to ask you.”

The air of seduction diminishes just a bit as Matsukawa fits him with a quizzical stare. “Right now?” he asks, looking to Hanamaki’s immobile wrists pointedly.

But Hanamaki is just as incredulous as him when he sighs out, “Right now.”

Matsukawa sits back, minding Hanamaki’s growing erection, to balance on his thighs. “Okay, what is it, Hiro?”

“Are—“ Hanamaki swallows, trying to look anywhere else but at Matsukawa’s body even though he’s the fucking one killing the mood here. “Are we a thing?”

“A thing?” Matsukawa parrots with a raised brow.

Hanamaki can hear these annoying little voices in his head cheering him on. They sound suspiciously like those idiots at the bar earlier whom he stupidly refers to as his friends. “Yeah, like are we in a—I dunno, like a—“

“A relationship?”

Hanamaki’s not sure if he’s grateful for Matsukawa’s deduction skills or mortified that he’s just that easy to read.

“Well—um—” he stumbles into a wall, inexplicably and suddenly without any of the right words. “Yeah,” Hanamaki barely manages to force out. “A relationship.”

Matsukawa studies him closely, expression unreadable again. “Is that something that you want?”

Alright, so it’s not a complete _no_ straight out of the gate, that’s a good sign, Hanamaki thinks. He’s still trying not to look at the way Matsukawa’s black briefs hug his thick thighs or the taught, tan skin covering his sharp hipbones. He’s not being very successful.

“Is it something _you_ want?” Hanamaki throws back in a rather childish manner, but really not giving a damn at this current juncture.

Matsukawa gives him a look. “I asked you first.”

“I asked you last.”

“Hiro.”

“ _Issei_ —” but Hanamaki doesn’t get far with his choice in banter because Matsukawa’s fingers are suddenly digging into the sensitive sides of his stomach in retaliation. “Okay, okay!” he gasps out, thrashing underneath Matsukawa to avoid being tickled any further. “Yes, I want it. It’s something I definitely want. But if you don’t want it then that’s cool too, I mean we’ll always be friends no matter—“

Matsukawa’s lips muffle whatever other backpedaling was sure to spill out of Hanamaki’s mouth next, warm pressure and a slick tongue teasing along the plush of Hanamaki’s lower lip, a practiced move that they both know he _loves_. Matsukawa curls a hand against his jaw and it’s soft and so much more tender than he’d been anticipating their first actual contact of the evening to be. He flutters slow kisses against Hanamaki’s mouth, pulling tiny sounds from both their throats when their tongues meet somewhere in the middle.

When Matsukawa pulls back Hanamaki finds himself practically breathless.

“So um,” he whipsers, feeling a bit glazed. “That was really nice and all, but it doesn’t explicitly answer my question.”           

Matsukawa’s smile is warm and genuine. “Yes, idiot, it can be a relationship.”           

“Already with the pet names, Issei, I’m tickled.” The teasing words fall out before Hanamaki can really think about what he’s saying. “Wait, I mean—“

Matsukawa’s fingertips travel dangerously slow up his torso, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. “Hey, you’re the one that said it,” he smirks, pulling his fingers under Hanamaki’s ribs and making the other man squirm.

“Fuck, no please!” he gasps out, twisting and giggling and _dammit_ , if he doesn’t feel even more aroused now.

“Fine,” Matsukawa says, stopping after another few pinches. “But only because I’m such a loving and respectful boyfriend.”

Hanamaki snorts, uncontrollably. “Boyfriend,” he snickers out.

Matsukawa’s brows furrow. “What? That’s what ‘relationship’ means to you, right?”

“I know, I know.” Hanamaki assures, still feeling giggly and a little high. “It’s just all I can think of is the day after graduation—”

“ _’You’re my boyfriend now, Iwa-chan! You have to pay!’_ ” they squeal in unison at the top of their lungs before Matsukawa nearly collapses onto Hanamaki’s chest in amusement.

“That secret didn’t keep for long,” Matsukawa says, his words catching on the sensitive flesh of Hanamaki’s throat.

“Yeah, I don’t even think it made it twenty-four hours,” Hanamaki mumbles into Matsukawa’s curls. “I can’t believe they’re getting _married_ —attached at the hip for the rest of their lives.”

“I think it’s sort of cute. Childhood friends, high school sweethearts, all that.”  
           

Hanamaki blinks, staring past Matsukawa’s head. Something inside his ribcage clicks into place and his fists slacken against the tie like it’s no longer even there, holding him. “Issei, I never knew you were such a closet romantic.”

Matsukawa tilts his head up so he’s leaning his chin on an arm he’s slung over Hanamaki’s chest. His glasses are crooked. “Learn something new everyday, don’t we Hiro?”

The words are familiar and they should have Hanamaki flustered, but instead he just feels an immense weight lifted off his shoulders. He feels suddenly— _okay_.

Swallowing down the thought, Hanamaki plasters on a wicked smirk. “So like, are we going to have sex or what?” He wiggles his hips as best he can under Matsukawa’s body.

Matsukawa regards him carefully. “If you’re still in the mood.”

“Hell yeah I am,” Hanamaki announces with another little jut of his hips, this time making contact with the cock nudging him through Matsukawa’s briefs. “Are you kidding me? We have to consummate the relationship.”

Matsukawa looks like he might have argued a bit more if it weren’t for the groan he was obviously trying to suppress. But then he smiles, something soft and hidden and Hanamaki knows that he’s lost right then and there even if he’s not sure what the object of the game is just yet.

Leaning back in Matsukawa hovers over Hanamaki, dipping down to latch tongue and lips onto the pale line of Hanamaki’s neck. Matsukawa runs steady fingers up over his stomach and chest and for just a second Hanamaki forgets that he’s at Matsukawa’s mercy, but when his arms strain to pull forward and reurn the touch he’s met with that grounding resistance at his wrists and it only serves to make his skin shiver more under the other man’s hands.

Matsukawa twists the bars in both his nipples in a random pattern that has Hanamaki’s throat opening around a groan that Matsukawa catches with a sloppy wet kiss and a tongue running across his teeth fearlessly. Hanamaki goes to snap his jaws shut, lips twitching into a smirk against Matsukawa’s, but the other is quicker, pulling away like he could read Hanamaki’s mind through their proximity.

“Play nice and you’ll get a reward, Hiro,” Matsukawa says against his cheek, though he’s obviously trying to suppress his amusement.

It’s really too bad they’re not at Matsukawa’s so they can choose something new from that familiar black box under his bed. But Hanmaki figures, with anticipation and a little excitement, that they’ve got plenty of time for that now.

Hanamaki’s smirk doesn’t falter. “Is this where I’m supposed to say something like _‘Issei, you’re all the reward I need’_?”  

“Spoil sport,” Matsukawa murmers, tonguing at the underside of his jaw. “Don’t ruin the surprise.”

Hanamaki’s eyes widen a bit at the implication there. “Issei—?”

But Matsukawa’s already arching his back, cat-like, and fitting Hanamaki with a look that seems to be answer enough. “But you’ve got to behave,” Matsukawa hums, bringing his hips forward and rolling his abs up so that the hardness straining at his briefs is only a few inches from Hanamaki’s face.

“Holy shit,” Hanamaki hisses out, lungs feeling like they’re caving in as Matsukwawa grinds backwards now, ass rubbing against his own hard cock with purpose. Hanamaki bites his tongue too hard but doesn’t even register the pain, only managing to think to himself that this is entirely, _infinitely_ better than any lapdance he could ever receive, even in his wildest of fantasies.

Hanamaki’s fingers twitch with the urgent need to run his hands down each and every curve and line of Matsukawa’s body. The thick flesh of Matsukawa’s ass is driving him insane with the implication of each and every grind and twitch of his hips.

_This can’t be real. Not that conversation a minute ago, not this now, holy fuck—_

Matsukawa lifts up onto his knees, leaving Hanamaki quivering beneath him, stomach curling with a heavy breath and his gaze follows the other man’s body up, watching him with wide, saucer eyes that he can’t seem to help.

“Ready for your reward?” Matsukawa asks, voice easy and casual as if he’s not affected by this at all, though the wet hardness straining in his briefs a few inches from Hanamaki’s greedy lips seems to prove otherwise.

Hanamaki nods, unsure of his voice at this point. He probably looks ridiculous, propped against his pillows and wrists lashed to the headboard, nodding on command like an attention seeking pup. But Hanamaki doesn’t give a damn, not one, especially when Matsukawa dips his thumbs into the waistband of those tight, black briefs and pulls them down to let his cock bounce up against the sun-kissed skin of his abdomen.

It seems like it’s happening in slow motion at first, a show just for Hanamaki’s eyes, but then Matsukawa is moving and suddenly his undergarments are gone in a blur, revealing him completely. Hanamaki can feel Matsukawa watching him and at this point there isn’t an ounce of false modesty between them.

Hanamaki thinks (read: _desperately hopes_ ) that it’s his turn to be de-clothed, but instead of reaching for his entirely too constricting waistband, Matsukawa leans over and sorts through Hanamaki’s side table with a surprisingly acute and attractive knowledge of just where he keeps his unmentionables.

“Issei—” Hanamaki tries again, mouth dry, but Matsukawa drags a finger over his lips as he settles back onto Hanamaki’s lap.

“No talking,” he shushes softly. “That’s the first rule, okay?”

Hanamaki nods on auto-pilot again, his brain suddenly too busy trying to guess at what the second rule could possibly be. He’s got a few ideas, but when Matsukawa’s bare skin grinds along his cock again Hanamaki’s ideas turn into threads he can’t seem to grasp.

“I guess the second rule is obvious,” Matsukawa says, methodically as he uncaps Hanamaki’s bottle of lube. “No touching.” He nods towards Hanamaki’s tie with a sharp smirk.

If Hanamaki wasn’t so hell bent on learning the possibility of the next rule, he might’ve already broken the first to call Matsukawa an absolute _bastard_ with that sly look of his.

Instead he just tightens his fists and watches Matsukawa’s movements closely, waiting. He follows Matsukawa’s hand down to his cock, those long digits twisting and giving it a good couple of jerks, sending wet pre-cum into the sensitive divot of Hanamaki’s belly button.

Hanamaki has to forcibly bite at his lip to keep from talking this time.

“The third rule,” Matsukawa hums, obviously pleased with himself, as he toys with the bottle until his fingers are shining with lube under the low light of the reading lamp next to them.

Hanamaki finds himself waiting with baited breath, but Matsukawa stretches the silence between them, leaning forward to meet the other’s gaze carefully from behind his frames. “The third rule,” he repeats in a whisper. “No coming without permission.”

Hanamaki can’t control the little whine that escapes his throat, but it’s definitely not words or talking dammit, so he thinks he’s okay. Matsukawa’s smirk only widens and when he flicks his tongue against his lower teeth just before leaning in further, Hanamaki catches the tale end of something incredibly fond and reminiscent reflected in his expression.

Before he can think too much on that, Matsukawa’s licking into his mouth, gently tracing his tongue with his own and kissing the air right out of his lungs until he moans right into Hanamaki’s mouth and everything comes to an abrupt halt.

Hanamaki pulls away as much as he can in order to see Matsukawa’s face because he knows what’s happening and why he’s making a noise like that, a noise Hanamaki is _very_ familiar with from his own personal repertoire.

Eyes widening, Hanamaki’s gaze flickers over the flush to Matsukawa’s cheeks, the way his mouth hangs open, shining and sloppy from their kiss. Matsukawa moans again, perhaps this time for effect, but it has Hanamaki’s cock twitching on impulse just the same.

Hanamaki wiggles his wrists, inadvertently knocking the headboard into the wall a couple of times in the process, but shit he can’t even fathom how _jealous_ he is right now and how much he needs to break free so that _he_ can be the one eliciting those sounds from Matsukawa’s mouth.

A single syllable exits his throat and Matsukawa’s expression changes, darkens in warning and Hanamaki snaps his jaws shut. Okay, so he’s definitely _not_ going to break the first rule, and despite the proceedings, Matsukawa is still very much in charge, but he’s totally going to kill him for making this so fucking difficult ( _after_ the mind-blowing sex, of course).

Matsukawa’s arm stretches and twists with each precise movement and there’s no way the man hasn’t done this before and shit, does that paint a pretty picture inside Hanamaki’s mind. But right now, he can’t afford himself any distractions so Hanamaki allows his eyes to follow the trail of thick muscles tensing across Matsukawa’s abdomen, all the way down to the erection throbbing red and hard between them, hovering just above his own clothed one.

For a fleeting second Hanamaki feels a plea rise up in his throat; he has the intense and sudden urge to beg Matsukawa to touch him, to move just a fraction more so Hanamaki can feel him, grind against flesh as sensitive as his own. But he chokes down the impulse; he’ll save it for another time, another night when Matsukawa would perhaps ask him—no, _tell_ him to beg for it.

Time and space seem to work against Hanamaki as he watches Matsukawa’s body above him, caging him in and yet also on shameless display. He’s not sure how long it’s been, but then Matsukawa’s lip quivers in the tight vice of his teeth and he’s reaching for a condom.

Matsukawa observes him closely and Hanamaki can’t help but watch his every movement with uncanny focus. Fingers trail across his stomach, reminiscent of their earlier conversation, though this time the touch tickles less and burns more. At the waistband of his briefs Matsukawa pauses, taking his time to dip the tips of his fingers into the elastic, pulling the fabric against the skin of his abdomen until finally he tugs with a bit more purpose to allow the thick, warm air between them to hit the slick head of Hanamaki’s cock.

He groans when Matsukawa dips a curious thumb into the pearly beads of pre-cum at his slit and nearly whines when Matsukawa finally pulls his underwear far enough to reveal his entire erection, tucking the waistband beneath his sack and leaving Hanamaki laid bare, while he tears open that familiar gold foil.

Carefully, so carefully Matsukawa rolls the condom down, watching Hanamaki all the while. But Hanamaki can’t stop his eyes from clenching shut as the sensation paired with the visual is nearly too much.

When he feels his briefs being pulled down entirely to gather at his feet and more lube being dripped onto his newly sheathed cock, he peels open one eye to observe Matsukawa's thighs as the muscles there tighten when he raises himself back up to balance over Hanamaki’s hips.

Matsukawa grasps Hanamaki’s cock with practiced ease, but before he moves any further he fits the man with a serious look. “Okay?” he asks.

Even if the rules hadn’t been put in place, Hanamaki’s not sure his voice would have worked at the moment anyways. He nods his head obediently and that seems to be enough for Matsukawa.

He starts out slow, dipping down onto Hanamaki’s cock until he’s seated, spreading his hands out against Hanamaki’s stomach for balance. It takes a moment but then Matsukawa rocks his hips front and back, until he finds the angle and speed that forces a low gasp from his throat and invites a flush to bloom down his neck and chest. Hanamaki desperately wants to chase the alluring color with his tongue, catch those sounds with his mouth, but all he can do is lie back and let Matsukawa ride him for all he’s worth.

It doesn’t take much adjustment for Matsukawa to start lifting his hips now, up and down and starting a rhythm accented by the sound of flesh on flesh. Matsukawa’s ass and thighs hitting Hanamaki’s sharp hips fills the room with a beat only broken by the wordless breaths and groans escaping both their throats in tandem.

It’s filthy and mind-numbing and Hanamaki isn’t sure he’s quite going to make it.

A low whine makes it’s way, tumbling out of his mouth before he can bite it back. In any other situation it might’ve made Hanamaki feel weak or flustered, but Matsukawa just surveys him carefully, tender almost, until something flashes behind those frames and he picks up the pace, sending Hanamaki’s muscles spasming for control beneath him.

Again Hanamaki’s voice is swept out of his lungs and he’s somewhat grateful for that, both in that it forces him to adhere to the rules and also because he’s certain his words would have crumbled into a million pieces if he’d tried to speak now. Instead he mouths Matsukawa’s name over and over, in his head, on his lips— _Issei, Issei, Issei—_ like a mantra.

And then suddenly, just as Hanamaki feels like he might be swallowed up in sensation, his arms pulling taught at the tie burning white-hot against his wrists, Matsukawa stops.

He just _stops_ and when Hanamaki’s eyes flash back open (when exactly had he closed them?) he watches Matsukawa sit atop him, sleepy-eyed and indifferent and Hanamaki actually growls at the sight.

Slowly, so incredibly _slowly_ , Matsukawa grinds his hips back and forth and though it seems to be enough to send another bead of pre-cum down his own cock, it’s far from enough for Hanamaki.

Matsukawa’s lips curve into a smirk beneath the pleasure and Hanamaki knows at once that it’s meant as a challenge. So, without waiting for permission, he bucks his hips sharply, catching Matsukawa off guard and driving up at an angle he can only hope is spot-on at this point.

There hadn’t been any rule on fucking if he was remembering correctly.

It seems luck is on Hanamaki’s side this time as the sudden movement sends a shrill yelp from Matsukawa’s throat, so different from his usual, reverberating groans and gasps.

But before Hanamaki can bask too long, Matsukawa reaches forward to tug at the jewelry that's gone mostly neglected thus far, laced through Hanamaki’s nipples. The retribution is swift and has Hanamaki wrestling with his bonds as Matsukawa twists and prods the piercings, earning a few keening noises of his own. Hanamaki almost breaks the first rule, teeth digging into his lower lip as the pain and pleasure attack his subconscious, his head feeling fuzzy and light especially when Matsukawa starts to grind his hips again with more purpose, flicking at his sensitive nipples and leaving him helpless.

And then suddenly Matsukawa changes tactics, leaning low to trail his mouth down the side of Hanamaki’s neck, teeth teasing here and there, catching on skin and leaving nips and marks in their wake. Matsukawa’s hands have moved as well, one pressing into the mattress to balance his weight and the other curling around his own, leaking cock.

Hanamaki moans and he twitches inside Matsukawa and suddenly he’s so, so close but then Matsuakwa’s voice drags him back from the precipice, back to reality with a few simple words.

“Remember the third rule, Hiro,” Matsukawa says, tilting his head to murmur into Hanamaki’s ear. “You have to wait for _permission_.”

Over the years, Hanamaki has been with a fair amount of partners; they varied of course, some more vanilla, some adventurous, others demanding and dominant. He’d had those same words spoken to him on several occasions, even by Matsukawa himself. But somehow, in this moment, he’s never felt more frustrated or aroused by that voice in his ear commanding— _asking_ him to _obey_.

He nods, entirely pliant, feeling dizzy and focused all at once. Hanamaki’s eyes glaze, vision tunneling until all he can see, all he can think about is Matsuakwa on top of him, grinding down on his cock and stroking himself off— _using_ him.

“Do you want to come?” Matsukawa asks, this time sounding more breathless, more like he himself is nearing the edge just as quickly as Hanamaki.

He thinks he nods, he’s really not sure, but then with surprising ease, Matsuakwa shifts, leaning back with his hands planted firmly against Hanamaki’s thighs. The new position opens up a spectacular view of the man’s muscular legs, but when he starts to bounce again on Hanamaki’s cock the renewed friction between them has both men groaning in unison.

It doesn’t take long after that. Hanamaki’s skin burns from the inside out and he knows, just by watching Matsukawa’s expression that he’s just as close.

He wants to ask, to _beg_ , but his lips are moving around air and the words stick on his throat.

No matter, because Matsukawa can (and had always been able to) read him like an open book.

_“Come, Hiro.”_

And it’s so much like the first time—and maybe that’s what does it in the end, sending Hanamaki’s twitching hips thrusting up, the coil inside snapping and flooding his mind white and blank.

On his way back down he feels warm cum hitting his stomach and chest in thick spurts and the thought, the sensation has him groaning, but whatever sounds might have echoed up from his throat are caught and swallowed by Matsukawa’s lips pressing wet against his own.

His breathing still hasn’t quite evened out by the time Matsukawa undoes the tie, massaging the muscles that have since gone numb, whether from the orgasm or their position Hanamaki isn’t quite sure.

Matsukawa slides off of him, the condom still warm, but almost immediately beginning to feel sticky and uncomfortable, but Hanamaki can’t even bring himself to care about that right now.

Hanamaki, mind half-way to falling asleep, inches his way down into the pillows, stretching his shoulders and back and nuzzling into the side of Matsukawa’s face. Somewhere along the way he'd taken his glasses off.

“Better than a lap dance?” he hears in his ear as Matsukawa continues to trace patterns against the pins-and-needles of his hands.

And all Hanamaki can do is mutter against his jaw, “Holy shit, _yes_.”

* * *

He wakes slowly, his mind still cloudy with sleep and residual endorphins from the night previous. Hanamaki’s body feels heavy, the muscles in his limbs feeling sore but not yet uncomfortable. He’s on his stomach, curled around a pillow, half covered by his blankets, and where his skin is left bare, it shivers ever slightly in the cool morning air of his apartment. Hanamaki sighs into his pillow; it had been a good night.

The first thing he’s really able to register, coming out of his deep tunnel of wonderfully dreamless sleep is the faint presence and warmth hovering somewhere next to him. A pressure on the mattress dips his stomach further into the sheets and his body shifts; when he opens his eyes Hanamaki finds them trying to focus on a pare of framed ones staring down at him behind a matte black phone case.

Hanamaki squints. “Issei,” he mumbles into the pillow, tongue dry and unpredictable in his mouth.

Matsukawa lowers his phone to reveal a smile, quiet but laced with so much affection it makes Hanamaki blink. “Morning,” he says, his voice rougher than normal with the first spoken word of the day.

There’s a tiny ray of sunlight peeking through the narrow window to the left of Hanamaki’s bed. It trails across the hardwood and up the bed to glow against the bare skin of Matsukawa’s chest.

Hanamaki watches him raise the phone again, angling it with a curious quirk of his brow. It takes a few more seconds for realization to click inside Hanamaki’s still waking mind, but when it does he’s quick to bury his face back into the covers.

“What are you doing?” he knows his voice is muffled and nearly inaudible, but Matsukawa must have heard the embarrassment in his tone just the same as he chuckles deeply, shifting his weight on the bed again.

"You’re cute when you’re sleeping,” he says, matter-of-factly.

Hanamaki twists so one eye can be narrowed in Matsukawa’s direction. “I resent that,” he grumbles. “I’m _always_ cute.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Matsukawa agrees easily. There’s something in his tone that makes Hanamaki’s stomach quiver. “But the lighting was really nice, I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

“Mhmm.” Hanamaki curls away from him again, though this time it’s mostly just to hide the blush he can feel creeping across his face.

“You can look through them if you’re interested.” Matsukawa’s voice is soft and genuine in his ear, morning stubble tickling the skin of his cheek. “Delete the ones you don’t like.”           

Hanamaki shuffles and turns to find himself nose to nose with the man. “Really?” he asks.

Matsukawa nods, humming his assent. “I’ve got the real thing to look at anyways.” He surprises Hanamaki with a gentle kiss to the bridge of his nose before pulling back. “Is it alright if I shower?”

Hanamaki feels like he’s about to swallow his tongue. “Of course,” he stumbles out. “What’s mine is yours.”

“What a gracious boyfriend.” Matsukawa’s already lifted himself off the bed, sauntering towards the door. “So I’ll just be helping myself to those pastries in your fridge then.”

That manages to pull Hanamaki from his shyness. He shoots up out of the covers and fits Matsukawa with his best scowl. “You lay one finger on my profiteroles and I’ll deck you, boyfriend or not.”

Matsukawa’s smirk looks like it’s trying valiantly to hold back his laughter. “I would never,” he answers airily, turning towards the bathroom down the hall.

Hanamaki sits there for a moment, feeling a little stunned. It’s not like they’d never flirted like that before, teased and play-fought with one another; hell, they’d been doing all of that since high school even. But now, somehow it feels different.

Different good or different bad Hanamaki isn’t totally sure yet. It’s just— _different_.

In lieu of over thinking, Hanamaki reaches for the phone Matsukawa had left on the nightstand, swiping past the lock screen of an odd looking building with large oval windows, skull-like balconies, and a scaly mishmash of multicolored ceramic tiles.

He sinks back into the pillows, feeling a blush seeping into his cheeks at the amount of pictures Matsuakwa had just from that morning. He was right, the lighting was nice, providing a golden halo around the mass of covers that was Hanamaki’s sleeping form. The others were closer, some close enough to count the fair lashes brushing against Hanamaki’s cheek and others farther away, capturing the lean muscles in the arm he’d wrapped tightly around his pillow. Then there were a few of him squinting up through half-lidded eyes, stripes of pink down his cheek from where the sheets had left their mark. The last one held a smirking version of himself, staring through the camera to the man behind it, though there was something genuinely happy about his expression, nothing sarcastic—nothing _bitter_.

They were totally embarrassing for Hanamaki to look at, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to delete a single one of them.

The phone buzzed in his hand, the surprise of it nearly sending it flying out of Hanamaki’s fingers.

He looked down at the message habitually, unable to stop himself. He could only catch part of the text though, not enough to make sense of it, and a name that he’d never heard before. _Ian_ —it sounded American, maybe.

But then, the kanji—it didn’t matter, because it was a message for Matsuakwa, none of Hanamaki’s business.

His thumb still hovered over the message icon and before he could get himself to stop he’d opened it.

 **To:** Ian Tsuji

_[I need to talk to you.]_

**From:** Ian Tsuji

_[You know I’m always here for you. Call me anytime, Issei.]_

Down the hall the bathroom door creaks open and Hanamaki throws the phone across the bed onto the pillow Matsukawa had slept on last night.

Matsukawa comes to lean in the doorway, hair damp and dressed in the same clothes as yesterday. “Wanna grab breakfast?” he asks, fiddling with one of the black studs in his ear.

“I—I can’t,” Hanamaki sputters out jumping up and launching himself at the nearest pair of pants. “I just remembered I have a client consult this morning. Last minute sort of thing, you know.”

Matsukawa looks him over with an abhorrent amount of suspicion as Hanamaki frantically looks for a clean shirt, but nods anyways. “Alright.”

“Okay, cool.” Hanamaki barely remembers to grab his own phone before picking up Matsukawa’s and holding it out to him even as it burns like fire against the skin of his palm. “Um, I’ll call you, okay?”

Matsukawa reaches for it, brushing his fingers against Hanamaki’s own. “Okay,” he agrees, still not taking his eyes off Hanamaki.

“Okay,” Hanamaki repeats again for utterly no reason and guides them towards their shoes.

Once downstairs and outside Hanamaki has never been happier to have an excuse to take an entirely different train than Matsukawa. And if he dry-heaves unjustifiably in the bathroom at the station after they part ways, no one will ever need to know.

* * *

_Please don’t be hung over, please don’t be hung over,_ his mind chants over and over, an echo inside his head. He taps clenched knuckles against the door once and then again with more force. _Please don’t be naked,_ the voice inside his head changes over to a whine now. _Please don’t be—_

The door opens surprisingly quickly to reveal a thankfully entirely clothed Oikawa staring down the bridge of his nose. How did he manage to make Hanamaki feel so small when they were practically the same height?

“Makki,” Oikawa greets, though the pleasantry is plastic and fake. “What are you doing here?”

“I asked Issei if we were in a relationship,” Hanamaki blurts out for lack of any better form of explanation.

Oikawa regards him carefully, the knowing simper slowly dissolving into something of a frown. His eyes go from half-lidded to round as the words settle in between them. “ _Oh_ ,” he says and automatically opens the door wider.

Hanamaki steps over the threshold just as Iwaizumi comes into the living room, busy buttoning his shirt and for the first time in a long time Hanamaki feels like he’s intruding. He leans back towards the door, an apology on his lips, but Oikawa blocks his way.

“What did he say?” he asks, staring at Hanamaki with that serious, captain look of his.

Iwaizumi glances up then, brows furrowed but otherwise very unsurprised at Hanamaki’s sudden appearance in his apartment. Hanamaki’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing though.

He turns his eyes back to Oikawa. “He said yes, if that’s what I want.” The words don’t sound as nice on his tongue as they maybe aught to at this point.

Oikawa starts to glow, smiling with his teeth, but Hanamaki interrupts before the man can get to the I-Told-You-So’s. “That’s not why I’m here though,” he grits out, unable to meet either of his friend’s curious stares anymore. “I did something stupid.”

 “You do a lot of stupid things, Makki. I’m sure you’re blowing things out of proportion,” Oikawa starts, swatting a hand in the air between them.

But, even with the added insult, Hanamaki can’t take it anymore and meets Oikawa’s indifference head on. “I might have opened a text on his phone—from another guy,” he says, no emotion behind the words other than a little dry mortification.

Oikawa deflates immediately, gaping at him. “Makki, you dummy!”

“I know, I know!” He throws his hands up in defeat at Oikawa’s growing scowl. “I shouldn’t have looked, it was an accident!”

“What did it say?” Iwaizumi cuts in, oddly curious in a guilty sort of way.

Hanamaki hesitates, unsure, but his mouth starts moving anyways. “Issei said he _‘needed to talk’_ and the guy said _‘you know I’m always here or you.’_ ”

He watches sharply for his friend’s reactions, staring them down but only getting a couple of highly unsatisfying blank looks in return.

“Maybe he’s just someone Matsukawa knew in Spain?” Iwaizumi shrugs. “A friend?”

Oikawa nods, flicking a long finger towards Hanamaki. “I’m sure that’s it, Makki! I think—”

“You should just ask him,” Iwaizumi interrupts, earnestly.

Hanamaki frowns, unsure of what he’d been expecting, but deciding it definitely hadn’t been any of this. “I don’t think that’s—” he hesitates, watching Iwaizumi leaning down for a pair of shoes next to the door. “—um, sorry did I interrupt something?”

Iwaizumi’s shoulders stiffen as he stands back up and Oikawa shakes his head vigorously, eyes darting suspiciously. Hanamaki quirks a brow at the odd fluster and again feels that uncomfortable notion that he’s definitely intruding. Had he been doing that a lot lately? He hadn’t really been paying attention until just now.

“Oh, well we were going to brunch.” Hanamaki watches Oikawa’s eyes flit to Iwaizumi’s, questioning, but it only takes a few seconds for him to continue. “You’re more than welcome to join—”

“No, no sorry, shit, I should’ve called first,” Hanamaki backpedals, feeling so horrendously stupid for the second time that morning. “I’ll leave you guys to it—”

But Iwaizumi’s insistent hand on his arm apparently has other ideas as the man drags him towards the door. “Come on, dumbass. Let’s go eat,” he growls, but there’s no anger there, really.

 Oikawa just nods in agreement, locking the door behind them and smiling as they take the stairs together. But Hanamaki is almost certain that he can see right through that familiar grin to the worry Oikawa’s hiding beneath it.

* * *

The drink he’s ordered is obnoxiously pink and tart on his tongue, the lemony alcohol is serving him well in getting a buzz, but clearly very poorly in the judgment department. Of course, isn’t that why he’d ordered it in the first place?

He goes in for another large swallow but there’s a hand at his wrist to stop him. Iwaizumi looks at him, pointed and serious. “Matsukawa would never—”

 _Would never play you. Would never lead you on like this._ Hanamaki’s mind works on overdrive to fill in the blank Iwaizumi leaves hanging in the air between them.

“I know,” Hanamaki bites out and then again as if to reassure himself. “I _know_ that. It’s just—“

“It’s only natural to feel a little jealous, Makki,” Oikawa says.

“Jealously implies that Matsukawa is with someone else right now,” he spits out, tongue heavy behind his teeth.

He doesn’t really register the regret in Oikawa’s eyes or the way Iwaizumi tenses at his tone. Instead all he can think about is Matsukawa’s hands on someone else, on _Ian Tsuji_. Or maybe it would be the other way around, Ian Tsuji sitting in his lap, kissing him breathless after Matsukawa’s shown him photos of faraway cities and places _he’d like best_.

“Snap out of it,” Iwaizumi growls in his ear after an indeterminate amount of time.

Hanamaki blinks and physically shakes his head in order to heed advice that he knows could be accompanied with a slap or a pinch if he can’t get his shit together here.

He swallows, trying to get out of his own head and think logically. “What if he feels pressured? You know, what if I made him feel pressured to call it a relationship?” he says, a little helplessly. “I fucking asked him while we were in the middle of sex—what the hell was I thinking?”

Oikawa frowns at him from across the table. “Okay, first of all, TMI, Makki.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Hanamaki growls back.

Oikawa glares at him. “ _Second_ of all,” he continues with a bite. “The Mattsun I know would never lead you on like that, let alone _lie_. He’s been _dating_ you Makki. That’s what he’s been doing ever since he got back, you _do_ realize that don’t you?” he huffs and then, “ _Makki?_ Are you even listening to me?”

Hanamaki freezes, mind crashing to a halt (and no, he’s definitely _not_ listening anymore).

Suddenly, in the midst of everything, mid existential crisis, he realizes that really he doesn’t know anything about Matsukawa Issei at all.

And still, it isn’t quite that either. Of course he’d known Matsukawa for years, since they’d been gangly, awkward high school first years introducing themselves alongside Oikawa and Iwaizumi to the volleyball upperclassmen. He’d known Matsukawa through late night homework and movie marathons, through mandatory team bonding, training camps, and Interhighs. He’d known him through half-drunk near confessions and overseas university acceptances.

But ever since Matsukawa had come back he’d never really _known_ him.

Matsukawa knew probably more than he ever needed to know about Hanamaki, but had Hanamaki ever really made the effort to delve further into Matsukawa’s life as it stands now—or more importantly his life the last four years?

He knows right now, definitively, that Matsukawa makes his primary living as a photojournalist, mostly freelance for _Tokyo Shimbun,_ but also works as an editor on board certain projects. He’s worldly—much more worldly than Hanamaki himself ever will be—and still gets to travel here and there, though not as much as when he’d lived overseas. His guilty pleasure food is still greasy cheeseburgers, and he’s got an affinity for classic American novels and, of course, his beloved Nikon D3400. He still enjoys teasing Oikawa and commiserating over obscure sports teams with Iwaizumi. He likes taking Hanamaki out on ill-defined dates. In fact, he just simply _likes_ Hanamaki.

But—all of that was here and now in Tokyo. What did he know of Matsukawa outside of the bubble Hanamaki had been living in ever since that first, unprecedented blind date?

“Okay. I think—maybe I’ve overreacted.”

“Makki, you’re drinking vodka at ten o’clock on a Sunday.” Oikawa’s eyes roll. “You’re _definitely_ overreacting.”

“I should just ask him.” Hanamaki flicks his eyes back to his friends, suddenly seeing things in an entirely new light. “Right?”

Oikawa’s fingers tremble like he’s about to launch himself across the table and strangle Hanamaki right then and there. “Oh my god, that’s what we’ve been trying to tell y—”

“Right,” Iwaizumi interrupts forcefully, placing a placating hand on Oikawa’s arm.

“Thanks,” Hanamaki says, genuinely, watching Oikawa’s lip uncurl.

“Of course,” Oikawa nods, smiling and entirely unaware of how Hanamaki’s stomach impulsively clenches at his next words. “What are friends for?”

* * *

He hides out at Iwaizumi and Oikawa’s apartment until just before dinnertime, biding his time by helping Oikawa stuff envelopes with slate colored foil invitations and genuinely preferring the taste of stationary glue on his tongue rather than bitter regret and uncertainty.

But he can’t hide forever and even though he knows for a fact that Matsukawa isn’t going to be at his apartment when he gets home, he still feels apprehensive about going back there by himself.

He never called him like he said he would. Hanamaki wonders if Matsukawa’s noticed, if he’s over thinking everything in monumental proportions like Hanamaki is. Probably not though, Matsukawa’s always been so easygoing and levelheaded.

Hanamaki takes the stairs two at a time, feeling much different now than since he’d left that morning. Mostly thanks to Iwaizumi and Oikawa, but also partially just from time spent trying to tabulate all of the ways Matsukawa had shown how much he cared for him over the years.

 _He would never—_ Iwaizumi’s voice repeats in his head.

 _The Mattsun I know—_ Oikawa’s follows suit shortly after.

Hanamaki jiggles his keys from his pocket, but stops abruptly before he can open the door.

There on his doorstep lay a soft bouquet of roses, wine red in color, and held together with a few hasty wraps of twine tied off in a bow.

Hanamaki stares at it for a moment, unsure. It’s not as though too many people are privy to his home address, and even less so people willing to leave him flowers on his doormat. It couldn’t be Oikawa or Iwaizumi considering he’d just spent the entire day with them. It could be his sister perhaps if she were on this side of the city, maybe his mother, though that seemed highly unlikely considering she still lived all the way in Miyagi. But, after a moment of hesitation, Hanamaki knows definitively that it’s none of those possibilities.

When he bends to pick them up, the velvet petals and delicate leaves flutter with the movement. But when he turns them in his hand in search of a note his fingers catch on several sharp thorns still clinging to the rose’s stems.

“Shit,” he hisses out even if the small pricks aren’t really all that painful. But the surprise factor is what gets him in the end. Store bought flowers usually have the thorns removed, right? It was like the person who’d arranged the small bouquet had cut them straight from the fucking bush.

Hanamaki frowns, but there’s something about the whole scenario, something familiar and warming, as he stares down at the red blooms and the slight sting in his fingertips starts to fade. He can’t help but smile at that and clutch the roses tighter, thorns and all.

Are they a confession? An apology? A cliché? A grand romantic gesture?

Hanamaki doesn’t know the answer to that just yet, but he does know now exactly what he has to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had that part about the roses written since somewhere around chapter 3.
> 
> Also, Mattsun's lock screen is definitely Casa Batlló in Barcelona.


	10. say you'll never let me go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Don’t doubt yourself so easily, Hiro. You’ve been giving me what I need just fine.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS DONE
> 
> also, [complete soundtrack here](https://8tracks.com/h-lovely/efflorescence)  
> 

In the end, at the fault of no one other than fleeting time and adulthood, it takes Hanamaki nearly two days to confront Matsukawa.

After carefully arranging the mysterious roses in the only thing he could find that remotely resembled a vase (ie: his tallest beer glass) Hanamaki had wanted to immediately run to Matsukawa’s apartment, slam his fists against the door, and have it out right then and there in the hall, nosy neighbors be damned.

But after collecting his thoughts and realizing the time of day, he’d come to the conclusion that things would look and feel much more natural and less forced and definitely less panicked in the morning.

The thing about waiting around, though, is that sometimes life proves to get in the way of half-baked plans and confessions before your feet even touch the floor on a Monday at 8 AM.

Matsukawa is away for a few days on a business trip to Nagoya. This Hanamaki remembers only when he opens a snapchat that reveals a disgustingly long security line and a very sad and worried looking emoji. He feels a little sick at having left Matsukawa the way he had the day before—no cliché, tearful goodbyes at the airport, not even a goodnight text. Maybe he was right, maybe Matsukawa was getting cold feet already.

Hanamaki stares down at his phone, the little timer ticking down each remaining second like molasses. He wonders how many people Matsukawa had sent it to; he wonders if reading between the lines of a goddamn snapchat is enough to prove he’s finally hit rock bottom.

When the picture finally disappears from existence Hanamaki gets ready for work. He debates all day whether to send anything back, but when he doesn’t hear anything else from Matsukawa (from his _boyfriend?_ ) all day either he decides not to bother him.   

* * *

On the second day of Matsukawa’s absence something incredibly unprecedented happens to Hanamaki. (He’d like to say that it’s a call from Matsukawa expressing his undying love, but it’s not quite _that_ unprecedented.)

“Hello, Hanamaki-san?” comes a voice so oddly familiar through the phone it has Hanamaki squinting to remember.

"Yes?” he responds for lack of anything better, his mind still foggy from everything that’s transpired over the last few days.

For some reason the voice reminds him of Matsukawa, but that’s got to be a side effect of overanalyzing and replaying their relationship over and over in his head for nearly forty-eight hours straight, right?

“This is Azuma Kane, we met at Nakahara-san’s opening a couple of weeks ago?”

_Oh_ , Hanamaki’s mind hums as he blinks, staring off at the blank wall of his living room and then, “ _Oh_ ,” he says aloud as things snap into place

Standing up from the couch for no reason, Hanamaki immediately tries to swallow back down the stupid sound, but Azuma doesn’t seem phased, already speaking again on the other end.

“I was just wondering if you do any freelance or commission work,” Azmua asks. “I don’t mean to seem so forward, but I’d be interested in commissioning you if that’s the case.”

Hanamaki’s tongue feels numb, even as he runs it along the sharp edge of his teeth. The man’s words trickle into his head and just sit there for a moment until they can truly register. Commission work? _Him?_

“Uh—” Hanamaki clears his throat, shaking himself into reality. “The only commission work I’ve ever done are tattoos. But, if that’s something you’re interested in, I guess—“

“Let me explain myself further,” Azuma says and Hanamaki can detect the man’s genuine smile even through the phone. “The piece I purchased, with the beautiful rope work—I have clients who would pay a pretty penny to commission a work like that from you. Portraits and things of that nature, would you be comfortable with something like that?”

For whatever reason, the explanation makes Hanamaki’s muscles loosen a bit. As forward as the offer sounds, Azuma’s voice is light and casual, like he chats about shibari and his clients (the word could mean so many different things, but Hanamaki has a pretty good guess as to what it means in this context here) every day without fear of judgment or being ostracized.

Hanamkai decides, gripping his phone tighter, that he really admires this person that he barely knows at all.

“Yeah,” he says with a breath. “I’d be comfortable with that.”

On the other end he hears something like a sigh and when Azuma speaks next he sounds oddly relieved. “That’s wonderful, you’re really a wonderful talent—I’d hate to see it go to waste. Can I email you some more details? It would be contract to contract work, but I’ve already got clients asking about you, Hanamaki-san.”

Asking about him? Hanamaki can’t quite believe his ears. He nods unnecessarily. “Yeah, yeah—let me give you my email.”

“I look forward to working with you, Hanamaki-san.”

Hanamaki blinks, the sound of his name spoken in such a respectful and professional manner has a ring to it—something he’s never really experienced before. He smiles, feeling lighter than he has in days. “I look forward to working with you too, Azuma-san. _Thank you_.”

And he means it, truly from the bottom of his heart.

* * *

That night (or really, morning) Hanamaki finds himself lying in bed, half-awake but not quite tired enough to drift off just yet. His phone lays on the pillow next to him, a message open, bright and white in the darkness of his bedroom.

            **To:** Matsukawa Issei

            _I got a job offer_

He doesn’t get a response, but he figures that 2 AM texts probably don’t merit one anyways, even from Matsukawa.

* * *

It’s entirely too early for someone to be knocking (no, _pounding_ ) on his front door, but yet that’s exactly what is happening. Hanamaki groans into his pillow, hoping that it’s not an emergency so that he can punch whoever it is in the fucking face when he wrenches open the door.

It’s not an emergency (at least he hopes it isn’t). Actually it’s just Matsukawa.

The man is standing there, carry-on sat by his feet, waiting rather more patiently than his insistent knocking from a moment before would lead to believe.  

“Issei.” Hanamaki blinks. “You’re here.”

Matsukawa’s fingers tap against his leg—once, twice. “I’m here.”

The familiarity of it all has Hanamaki’s head spinning, but in an oddly comforting way.

“But, what about your trip?” The words stick a bit on his tongue.

Matsukawa shrugs. “I took an earlier flight home,” he says like it’s nothing.

Hanamaki stares at him, his brain still half asleep and fighting his every movement. Then finally he manages to spring forward, to wrap arms around Matsukawa and hold him there in place.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles into Matsukawa’s shoulder.

A chuckle rumbles between them, warm. “Hey, I’m not letting you be the bigger man here,” Matsukawa says into the top of his head. “I’m the one who got on a plane at three in the morning in order to apologize in person.”

Hanamaki grins, but doesn’t let go. “So dramatic.”

Matsukawa pushes forward, walking them over the threshold and into the apartment. “I thought I might start trying my hand at grand romantic gestures.”

“The roses were a good start. Thorns and all.”

Matsukawa stiffens in his hold for only a second before he tugs at Hanamaki’s arm, right where his tattoo meets his elbow. “Beauty and defense,” he hums, finally managing to arrange Hanamaki enough so that he’s looking up into the eyes staring down at him affectionately. “Look, but don’t touch.”

“You must be pretty brave then.” Hanamaki narrows his own gaze. “Or stupid.”

“I just don’t heed warnings very well, I guess.”

“I’m glad you don’t,” Hanamaki says thickly and then, “I’m happy you’re here, but don’t apologize, okay? You don’t need to either.”

“I kind of have to disagree, Hiro.” Matsukawa’s jaw tightens. “I’m pretty sure we’re on the same page here, but—“

Hanamaki pulls back, but only distances himself with a few inches of breathing room. The past few days flood back, like pins and needles, and suddenly he remembers what he has to do. “Okay, stop. All I have is one question and I think it might solve everything.”

Hanamaki winces at the implication there, like there’s so much off between them to be classified in such a strong, broad way. But Matsukawa just waits, doesn’t try to close the new gap between them, calm and listening.

He nods. “Okay.”

“Who’s Ian Tsuji?” The words are out of Hanamaki’s mouth before he can really prepare himself at all, but then Matsukawa is answering nearly within the same heartbeat, as though he’d anticipated the question from the start.

“Do you really want to know?” Matsukawa asks.

The meager distance between them seems to grow exponentially in the few seconds it takes for Hanamaki’s mind to catch up, a cavern in the floor between them threatening to swallow him at any second. He feels so suddenly tired, drained, wanting answers but not wanting to deal with the aftermath they might create. He’s just so tired—

“Yes, Issei,” Hanamaki huffs. “In case you hadn’t already realized, I’ve been ‘really wanting to know’ for days—”

“He’s my dom.” The door closes behind Matsukawa with a click. “ _Was_ my dom, I mean.”

Hanamaki stares over Matsukawa’s shoulder at the door frame. “Dom.” He flicks his vision back to the man standing an inch closer to him now. “Like—as in _dominant_?”

“Yes.”

Hanamaki stares. Never in all of his over-analysis had this ever been in the realm of possibility. A dom? Even Hanamaki himself can’t say he’s ever had a true dominant. Sure, he likes to experiment, he likes the sensation of submission, but he’s never actively sought it out, let alone a _professional_. This is—this is really incredible news.

“Holy fucking shit,” he stumbles finally and Matsukawa’s lips actually quirk.

“You saw my messages?” he wonders.

Heat rises on Hanamaki’s cheeks at the meager accusation. “Um—well, yeah sorry—“

Matsukawa shakes his head. “It’s alright. I was just asking him for advice.”

“Advice?” Hanamaki can’t even bother to be embarrassed by the squeak in his voice.

Stepping forward ever so slowly to close the gap between them further, Matsukawa answers him with such gentleness, like he’s afraid to spook Hanamaki if he speaks too quickly. “About you—and the nature of our relationship.”

Hanamaki’s mind blanks for a second until memories of their time spent together since that first not-so-blind date flash through like photographs in a worn leather album. Them together on the couch, in the grocery store, at dinner, Matsukawa’s bruised knuckles after the gallery, in bed, a resounding slap of skin on skin, lips on lips, silk ties and teasing fingers and words lingering unspoken and roses on his doorstep.

“Oh—“ Hanamaki sucks in a breath. “He knows about me then?”

“He has for a while actually,” Matsukawa responds, still entirely composed. “Is that okay with you?”

Hanamaki nods mechanically, because why should it bother him? He confides in Oikawa and Iwaizumi almost every single day, so why can’t Matsukawa do the same?

“I never really had anyone in Barcelona,” Matsukawa explains, pulling Hanamaki’s gaze back to him. “No one like you, or even Oikawa and Iwaizumi at least.”

Hanamaki swallows, feeling suddenly like an idiot for ever jumping to conclusions in regard to Matsukawa’s faithfulness. “And Tsuji?”

“We were never _friends,_ exactly—but he helped when I needed it the most.”

There’s a long silence that sits heavily in the air between them. Matsukawa seems to be waiting patiently, understanding of Hanamaki’s confusion and questions. He’s so great really; Hanamaki is starting to feel a terrible pit forming in his stomach.

“So—was it a relationship?” he finally says.

“If you’re asking if we had sex, the answer is no,” Matsukawa tells him without a second’s hesitation. “He taught me, mostly. That’s what I wanted out of it, a release but also—I was curious after you’d told me some of the guys you’d been with.”

For a brief second Matsukawa actually looks sort of sheepish for his confession and the expression eases the tension from Hanamaki’s muscles slowly.

“Oh,” Hanamaki murmurs and then, after the words settle further his eyes widen and he feels his face warm. “ _Oh_.”

“I needed to know if I could give you that.” Matsukawa ignores Hanamaki’s blush.

“But, I—” Hanamaki stumbles. “Issei, you know that I liked you _way_ before I ever realized that I liked—well, _that_.”

Matsukawa fits him with a knowing look. “I realize that _now_ ,” he says. “But you have to understand, when you used to confide in me about your sex life, it was hard—but also, incredibly _hot,_ Hiro.”

Hanamaki’s mind flashes for a second as he sifts through the phone calls and conversations he and Matsukawa had shared their first year of university, their first year apart. He can’t help the heat crawling up his neck as he remembers all the _discoveries_ he’d made that year—and consequently all the discoveries Matsukawa had made that year as well.

At the time it had been nothing, stories swapped between friends, but now looking back on it Hanamaki realizes that he can’t remember a single sexual encounter Matsukawa had confided in him about. Had it really been that one sided? What the hell had he been thinking? Had it been some sort of weird, twisted coping mechanism to help him get over a crush once thought unrequited? Had it—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hanamaki grits out between clamped teeth and Matsukawa has the audacity to chuckle at his reaction.

“Of course,” Matsukawa adds. “It was hard being in a new, foreign city all by myself too.”

Even through his previous fluster, Hanamaki can’t stop his snort. “Well, no shit.”

Matsukawa smiles softly, but his eyes dim instead of brightening. “It was hard, but I wasn’t just going to quit and run back home. That would have been just as difficult.”

The statement forces the air from Hanamaki’s lungs. He watches Matsukawa but the man doesn’t falter this time. How had it taken Hanamaki this long to see, to let those initial feelings slip through his fingers so easily? How could he have let Matsukawa go without a fight?

“Issei, why didn’t you—” Hanamaki tries to swallow down the bitter taste of guilt in his mouth. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“It always seemed like—” Matsukawa takes another hesitant step forward. “Like you were always looking for _someone_. Someone else, someone different than me.”

They’re close enough now again that Hanamaki could reach out and grab ahold of Matsukawa again, burrow into his chest, but he doesn’t. “Issei—”

“I know now that’s not true at all,” he says and laughs, actually _laughs_. “It’s bullshit actually, huh?”    

Hanamaki grins, unable to stop himself, because finally it all feels _right_.

“Yeah, it’s definitely bullshit. I love you, Issei,” he says, without a hint of hesitation and he throws himself at Matsukawa, this time definitely not planning on letting go.

As far as confessions go, this one certainly seems ill-planned and hardly at all romantic. It’s probably missed the mark by about five or six years, but Hanamaki just pulls himself up on his toes, that constant pressure on his shoulders disappearing with each passing second as he waits patiently for Matsukawa to start breathing again.

“I love you too,” Matsukawa says back in his ear, shy, almost a whisper like he’s afraid anything more grandiose will break the spell and shatter them both to pieces.

They stay like that, connected and unmoving, for a while—Hanamaki’s not sure how long at all, but it doesn’t really matter anymore. He can feel, faintly, Matsukawa’s heart beating where their chests are pressed together and Hanamaki has the urge to squeeze tighter, but instead he pulls back, trailing lips against Matsukawa’s jaw.

His tongue twitches behind his teeth, but he places a gentle kiss against Matsukawa’s lips before speaking.

“I can’t believe you went to a dom because of me,” he whispers, the amusement not at all lost in his quiet tone.

“Well, at first it was because of you.” Matsukawa’s words are hot, puffed out against his lips. “But I liked it more than I thought I would.”

Gooseflesh rises against Hanamaki’s skin even though he feels so incredibly warm wrapped up in Matsukawa’s arms. “So—you’re a switch?”

The question doesn’t seem to bother Matsukawa, but his generally unphased expression does crack just a little bit under Hanamaki’s open gaze.

“Technically,” he says and his voice is steady. “But I very much enjoy the relationship we have and, unless you’re inclined, I don’t particularly need anything else at the moment.”

It’s a very smooth answer, but the redness creeping across the bridge of his nose gives him away to Hanamaki and consequently makes Hanamaki feel so much less inhibited about the flush that has been blotching across his own skin ever since Matsukawa had knocked on his door.

“I—I’m not so sure I could give you what you need anyways,” he admits truthfully.

“Don’t doubt yourself so easily, Hiro.” Matsukawa presses his fingers into Hanamaki’s back, soothing. “You’ve been giving me what I need just fine.”

“So, I didn’t scare you off then—with the relationship stuff?”

Oh, Hanamaki will never get over how adorable Matsukawa looks, eyes nearly crossing behind his glasses, when he stares at Hanamaki in genuine confusion. “What? Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know.” Hanamaki shrugs in Matsukawa’s hold. “It’s just—things seemed tense.”

Matsukawa frowns, but his confusion only dissipates slightly. “I thought you were angry after seeing the messages—or at least afraid,”

“I should’ve just asked.” Forcing a wide grin, Hanamaki adds, “Since when are we shit at communication?”

Matsukawa laughs again and it’s comforting the way the sound vibrates between them. “We can’t possibly be worse than Oikawa and Iwaizumi, can we?” he asks. “Of course, the timing could have been better.”

Hanamaki brings a hand between them, tapping at Matsukawa’s chest with his finger pointedly. “And then you had to go and get on a plane to Nagoya.”

Matsukawa’s lips quiver slowly into a smile. “Sorry. Boyfriend comes before work from now on.”

Hanamaki scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous—“

“Speaking of—you got a job offer?”

Hesitating at the rapid change in subject, Hanamaki lets his hand relax against the pleasing planes of Matsukawa’s chest. “Yeah, I did. Commission work for that guy that bought one of my pieces at the gallery opening last month,” he explains, smile widening slowly with each word. “Actually, I might be needing a model—purely for educational purposes, of course.”

Matsukawa studies him, biting his tongue like he’s trying hard to school his features. “That was the shibari piece?” he asks, and even if his expression remains neutral, Hanamaki can hear the fluster in his voice.

Hanamaki nods with a hum. “I can always use the extra practice, Issei. We’re in a relationship now—you know, give and take and all that romantic crap.”

Matsukawa’s cheeks are red now, the one thing he’s unable to keep calm, cool, and collected. He leans forward and brushes his lips against Hanamaki’s.

“Is that a yes?” Hanamaki murmurs against him.

Matsukawa’s velvet response is nothing less than expected and has Hanamaki shivering with all kinds of anticipation.

“Only if you promise to let me try my hand at a sketch or two as well, Hiro.”

* * *

The buzz of Hanamaki’s tattoo gun fills the air around him, comfortable and warm, as he works to meticulously finish the shading on his latest piece: a simple lotus resting upon the underside of a strong, golden forearm.

“Does it hurt?” Oikawa wonders quietly from his perch across from Hanamaki, in a plastic chair on the other side of Matsukawa.

Iwaizumi lifts his eyes from his phone so that he can roll them exaggeratedly. “You ask that _every_ time.”

“Well this one’s in a different spot than yours Iwa-chan,” Oikawa spits back, sans true venom.

“You’ve got a high pain tolerance, don’t you?” Matsukawa wonders, watching Hanamaki dab a bit of greasy ointment onto his arm. “If you want a tattoo, Oikawa, just do it.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Iwaizumi grunts. “He may have a high pain tolerance, but you should see him get a cortisone shot—the baby’s scared of needles.”

Oikawa’s eyes widen in shock. “Iwa-chan!”

Hanamaki stifles a laugh, unsuccessfully. “How did we not know this about you?”

“Because it’s _not_ true—”

“Thanks for the extra fodder, Iwaizumi,” Matsukawa speaks over Oikawa easily. “I’m sure it’ll come in handy.”

Iwaizumi shrugs, but neither of them miss the hand he splays on Oikawa’s thigh when the other starts to pout.

They’re silent then for a few moments, watching Hanamaki work to make sure the new tattoo is sterilized, wiping his gloved hands, and then standing in search of his medical tape and cling wrap.

“Mm, very pretty Makki,” Oikawa hums, leaning in to get a better look at the flower now gracing Matsukawa’s forearm.

Hanamaki can feel his ears start to warm as he sits back on his stool with a huff. “It’s just a simple design—“

Oikawa leans even closer to him to whisper across Matsukawa’s knees. “But you made it for someone you _love_.” He stretches the syllables out so that the word tickles down Hanamaki’s neck.

He turns abruptly towards Iwaizumi. “Can you control your person, please?”

But Iwaizumi just fits him with a smile, strong and genuine, and Hanamaki realizes that somewhere along the line he’d forgotten that those two were in cahoots this entire time.

From his position still in the chair Matsukawa chuckles at the scene playing out before him. “It is very pretty,” he agrees, eyes flicking to the shiny plastic Hanamaki uses to protect his new ink. “But, Hiro, it doesn’t hold a candle to y—“

“Alright!” With a forceful push Hanamaki rolls his chair backwards so he can glare at the three of them from a distance, arms crossing over his chest, the roll of tape still hanging from his thumb. “Enough sap, get out,” he announces, cheeks burning.

“Oh, Makki you’re no fun,” Oikawa smiles. “But I suppose flustered is a better color than bitter.”

Hanamaki’s not sure his flush can get any darker now and at this point he doesn’t particularly care. “Out,” he says pointing to the door.

Iwaizumi tugs at Oikawa and stands, shaking his head and Hanamaki doesn’t miss the affection there. But when Matsukawa starts to push out of the chair, Hanamaki rushes to push him back down with a hand on his shoulder. “Issei can stay,” he announces, meeting Oikawa’s expression with a smirk of his own.

“Already playing favorites,” Oikawa says, wrapping fingers around Iwaizumi’s wrist.

Hanamaki shakes his head. “He’s always been my favorite and you know it.”

He can see, from the corner of his eye, the way Matsukawa looks up at him, staring clear eyed and fond from behind his glasses.

Oikawa fits him with a rare, genuine smile. “Yes, that I know,” he nods, turning and tugging Iwaizumi with him.

He doesn’t bother with I-Told-You-So’s and Hanamaki appreciates that, even if he would have let Oikawa gloat a bit this time around anyways.

* * *

It’s something that Hanamaki has been thinking about for a little while now. Something he’d never really done with anyone else before, something he’d never felt comfortable doing with anyone else before. But this is his _best friend_ —his _boyfriend_. And, after everything, if anyone could understand his curiosity, it was Matsukawa.

“There’s something I want to try.” Hanamaki holds up a set of leather cuffs. “Please?”

They’re at Matsukawa’s place for once and, as guilty as Hanamaki feels for sneaking to that black box beneath Matsukawa’s bed while the other had stepped away to retrieve some greasy take-out earlier, he feels remarkably calm standing here now, asking for this.

Matsukawa looks from the restraints and back to Hanamaki, schooling his features as neutral as possible, but Hanamaki knows him well enough to be able to detect the bit of heat flashing behind those glasses.

“I trust you, Issei,” Hanamaki says. “I want you to be in control.”

Matsukawa breathes slowly and Hanamaki watches his chest rise and fall, rise and fall. “You have to tell me _exactly_ what it is that you want, Hiro.”

There it is. That voice, low and soft but so commanding it has Hanamaki’s spine straightening on instinct.

Hanamaki swallows, though it’s not out of nerves or embarrassment, but rather something else entirely. “I want you to fuck my face.”

If that had been the request Matsukawa had been expecting, the flash of surprise over his cool expression certainly gave a different impression. Hanamaki grins, not-too brazenly, but enough to show Matsukawa that he’s serious—that he’s comfortable with this air between them.

At Matsukawa’s apartment there is no bedroom, no walls to signify a distinct space of play verses reality. There is only the bed and that black box, but that’s alright with Hanamaki because their relationship is more than that—transcendent of a room, of the requests he makes of Matsukawa and vice versa.

These nights are a choice, not a constant. Just the thought makes Hanamaki’s heart swell behind his ribs.

Matsukawa’s hand comes forward to rest against his jaw, his thumb tugging to part his mouth, a familiar touch. When he leans in Hanamaki meets him eagerly, but let’s Matsukawa guide the kiss with a gentle tongue and a hint of teeth.

Hanamaki can tell already that Matsukawa is trying to keep his breathing steady as warm air puffs against his lips when the other pulls back. Matsukawa is sure to hold his gaze for a few heartbeats, grounding them together, as he tugs the cuffs from Hanamaki’s hands.

“Take off your clothes,” he murmurs, and as soft as the words are they rip through Hanamaki and his mind starts to tip at the first, simple order.

He obeys easily, not having to make a show of it, knowing Matsukawa simply likes to see him exposed. Hanamaki’s never really been shy about his body, but the way Matsukawa’s gaze glows with hunger when he strips—it certainly does wonders for his self-esteem.

As he stands there naked, he watches Matsukawa carefully gauging the man for a reaction, a hint as to how the night might go from here. He loves rough, possessive Matsukawa, but there is certainly something to be said for the gentle, adoring dominance he’s discovered from the man.

By the look in Matsukawa’s eyes, the adoration glowing from behind those frames, tonight will be the latter.

“Turn around,” Matsukawa instructs, the metallic buckles on the cuffs clinking when he adjusts them in his hand.

Hanamaki does and goes so far as to cross his wrists at the small of his back; the pose, as terrifying as it might have been some months ago, feels entirely natural to him now.

He hears footsteps behind him and then a warm hand settles onto his hip, letting Hanamaki know that Matsukawa is there before the man presses a hot and reassuring kiss to the nape of his neck. Slowly, without pressure, Matsukawa fits the cuffs against Hanamaki’s wrists, the leather soft against sensitive skin. The restraints are firm, but not tight, just restrictive enough to allow Hanamaki’s headspace to go fuzzy at the edges. He can feel Matsukawa’s fingers checking to make sure nothing’s too tight, nothing’s caught or pinched and the attentiveness forces a gasp from Hanamaki’s throat.

“Color?” Matsukawa murmurs against the shell of his ear.

“Green,” Hanamaki nods without an inch of hesitation.

Matsukawa nuzzles against the edge of his neck, but his hands grasp tight and sudden at Hanmaki’s shoulders. “Good,” he says and a heartbeat later, “Kneel.”

He swallows, breathing in once to steady himself as much as he can in his current state, then carefully slides to his knees. Hanamaki can feel Matsukawa behind him, his touch lingering and protective as he balances himself on the carpet, knees shoulder width apart and shoulders slackening as much as the cuffs will allow.

When Matsukawa makes his way around so that Hanamaki can finally see him again, he’s unzipped his pants but not removed them, his arousal obvious behind the thin fabric of the briefs clinging to his hips.

For a very split second Hanamaki tries to imagine the roles reversed, Matsukawa naked on his knees for him, for _anyone_. It sends a shiver over his skin, gooseflesh aching. It’s a lovely picture, but when Matsukawa threads fingers through his short hair, tugging just enough, Hanamaki decides he enjoys this one just a bit more—for the moment at least.

Matsukawa trails a hand down his cheek, touch feather-light and Hanamaki can’t help himself from leaning into it, eyes dipping closed. But then, not entirely startling, Matsukawa’s grip tightens when it reaches his jaw, clenching and tugging Hanamaki’s head back until he opens his eyes again to meet Matsukawa’s gaze.

“Gorgeous,” he says and Hanamaki strains to swallow with his neck pulled taught. He flushes at the compliment, but does not shy away now that he trusts Matsukawa’s genuine disposition, whether they’re being intimate or not. 

“What do you want?” Matsukawa asks then, voice edging on demanding. His grip stays heavy, but his thumb runs along Hanamaki’s skin, soothing.

Hanamaki isn’t surprised at Matsukawa’s insistence that he make his requests, his needs known again. He knows the man likes to hear him speak those things aloud, as lewd as they sometimes are.

“I want,” Hanamaki breathes out and Matsukawa loosens his grip enough for him to lean forward, towards the wet fabric hiding the head of Matsukawa’s cock. “I want to suck you off.”

For a second Matsukawa holds him there, just out of reach, even as Hanamaki begs up through his lashes. But Hanamaki knows why and he licks his lips before adding, “Please?”

Above him Matsukawa’s mouth spreads into an indulgent smile. He nods and releases Hanamaki’s jaw almost too quickly, sending him off-balance for the second it takes for him to center his weight.

“Alright,” Matsukawa agrees. “But that’s not what you told me a few minutes ago, Hiro.”

Ah, there it is again. Hanamaki watches Matsukawa’s smile grow as he dips fingers against the waistband of his underwear, pulling it down to reveal a hard red cock aligned perfectly with Hanamaki’s mouth.

But, even on his knees, Hanamaki himself can be indulgent as well. “I want you to fuck my face, Issei,” he breathes, not daring to move any closer without permission first. “ _Please?”_

Matsukawa hums appreciatively, the sound nearly a moan and Hanamaki can’t help the way his own cock twitches where it hangs heavy between his legs.  

When Matsukawa grips the base of his erection, holding it out to Hanamaki like a gift, a lure, Hanamaki nudges forward on his knees mouth slack and presses a warm kiss to the head. He’s impressed with how quickly Matsukawa has begun to leak sweet, salty pre-cum onto Hanamaki’s tongue when he opens his lips wider, flicks at the slit and takes it as a high compliment even as his thighs tense in anticipation.

Then Matsukawa’s hands are on him again, soft at first, simply guiding him with pressure at the back of his skull. Fingers pull and pet through his hair, nails scraping against the sensitive skin there and Hanamaki can’t help but groan around the head he’s still laving gentle, wet attention to.

“Ready?” Matsukawa’s voice is unsteady when he finally speaks again and Hanamaki’s lips pull into as much of a smirk as they can, preoccupied as they are. He tilts his gaze upward, eyes focused on Matsuakwa and gives a small nod in the other man’s grip.

Even though he’s not relinquished this kind of control to someone before, Hanamaki is no stranger to giving a blow-job—in fact, he might even consider himself well versed in the act, if Matsukawa’s usual reactions are anything to go by. But this, Matsukawa’s firm hands on his head and his hips pressing forward, this is something different altogether.

The first thrust is soft, almost aborted, testing the waters and Hanamaki groans into the sensation, hands clenching into fists at his back. Above him Matsukawa breathes out a steady hiss of air and Hanamaki feels a swell of pride in his chest, lolling his tongue out as far as he can manage, his jaw stretching.

The second and third thrusts are tentative too, but they grow in depth each time and Hanamaki finds his eyes slipping shut at the feeling of Matsukawa’s cock on his tongue grows harder and heavier until suddenly he’s fucking in for real.

The grip in his hair becomes tighter and consequently so does Hanamaki’s mouth as he tries his best to suck and swallow each time Matsukawa drives forward. He breathes in through his nose, trying to time it with the rhythm Matsukawa sets, but just as the cock in his mouth brushes against the back of his throat it pulls back, forcing itself no deeper, but no less shallow either.

Matsukawa knows Hanamaki’s limits almost as well as he knows them himself; he’s uncertain now why he was ever hesitant in asking for this in the first place. Trust was something he’d never had to worry about, now or ever before.

The weight of Matsukawa’s cock in his mouth is intense, the taste of him on his tongue, dripping down his throat. He can feel the slide and mess of his lips, wetness clinging to his chin, and Hanamaki can’t stop his arms from pulling against their restraints at the tickling feeling.

Matsukawa pulls back and Hanamaki opens his eyes again, vision hazy. “Color?” Matsukawa asks, demands in that dark, velvet tone.

“G-green,” Hanamaki responds immediately, his jaw aching. “So fucking green.”

Matsukawa laughs, a deep, fond sound as he observes Hanamaki, scratching fingers through his hair again, and then his eyes crawl lower until they come to rest on Hanamaki’s own arousal. It’s obvious and straining and Hanamaki tries hard not to think about it; he’s glad he can’t look down, move at his own will at all, because that would certainly only make things worse. He aches, but it’s so _good_.

“Keep going,” he rasps and then quirks a devious brow. “ _Please_?”

With a squeeze of his hand on the back of Hanamaki’s neck Matsukawa indulges him, because how could he not?

* * *

The first check Hanamaki receives is larger than anything he’s ever gotten with his name printed on it, even more than that year he worked a double on New Years, and that’s really saying something.

“Holy shit,” he whispers out, even if he had agreed to the commission payment at the contract signing, he couldn’t really believe it until now with the check clutched in his fingers.

Hanamaki feels the weight of an arm around his shoulders and then Matsukawa presses a kiss to the edge of his forehead. From the corner of his eye he catches Matsukawa’s gaze and it’s filled with so much pride and affection Hanamaki thinks he might just melt then and there.

But then who would cash this beautiful, beautiful check?

“That’s a lot of money,” Hanamaki breathes, eyes flicking back to the numbers printed below his name.

"You deserve it,” Matsuakwa murmurs against his skin.

Hanamaki shivers but he’s warmer than he’s felt in a long, long time. He smiles, wide and true.

He knows, now more than ever, that Matsuakwa is right.  

* * *

“Hey, there’s something I’ve been meaning to show you,” a voice echoes in from the hall.

Hanamaki’s standing in front of Matsukawa’s bathroom mirror, attempting to do _something_ with his hair, but really unable to accomplish much, gel and all. He’s halfway into his suit, dark charcoal and slim cut, the coat still clinging freshly pressed to its hanger in Matsukawa’s closet.

Matsukawa leans against the doorframe, considerably less dressed than Hanamaki in an undershirt and briefs that hide very little.

Hanamaki eyes him, trying not to make it look like ogling. “Please show up to the wedding like that?”

With a soft smirk Matsukawa holds out a hand, beckoning. “I want to show you something,” he repeats in lieu of making any dangerous promises.

Wiping his hand on a towel Hanamaki follows, letting Matsukawa press a hand to his lower back as he guides them to sit down on the couch opposite each other.

“What’s up?” Hanamaki asks, trying to hide any sudden nervousness by checking the creases in his suit pants diligently. It’s not that Matsukawa makes him nervous (not anymore really, at least) but he’s not sure what to expect, especially considering they’re supposed to be getting ready to bear witness to their best friend’s nuptials in little over an hour from now.

Matsukawa doesn’t answer directly, instead leaning over to retrieve a faded little album Hanamaki had almost forgotten about, the edge still a bit worn and the leather cover as ambiguous as ever.

He thinks about the first night Matsukawa had ever shown him his photography, the Casablanca album he’d picked specifically for Hanamaki, and then Hanamaki’s compulsion to pick this one out of all the rest. They’d never opened it. In fact, they’d never even talked about it again after that first night.

But now here Matsuakwa was, fingers hovering over the tattered edge sitting atop his lap, brushing Hanamaki’s leg. He opens the cover and Hanamaki feels the air leave his lungs in a long, soft breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

It’s filled with pictures, of course, but they’re different, not of far-off places or cerulean oceans or ancient ruins.

They’re of Hanamaki. And Oikawa and Iwaizumi and all of Seijou; a veritable sea of aqua and bright white. Wide smiles and reddened cheeks, some from practice and games, others in their ridiculous uniforms, plaid pants and all. There’s Kyoutani, grumpy as always with Yahaba trailing after him. Watari and Oikawa posing, peace signs and all. Iwaizumi mid-spike. Kindaichi and Kunimi on the bench, knees knocking, too-close. Hanamaki near the school gate, pink flowers littering the ground beneath his feet.

Towards the end there are photographs with fewer people; shots of the court, shoes lying haphazardly in a pile, sun shining through barred windows, a jersey-covered back sporting the number three out of focus behind a volleyball sitting behind him.

The last picture is the only one Matsukawa actually makes an appearance in and as disappointed as Hanamaki is in that realization, the picture makes his face warm and his lips spread wide: a selfie with Matsukawa’s cheek smashed against his own, Hanamaki’s smile large enough to crinkle his eyes shut, but Matsukawa’s are open and focused entirely on _him_.

“They’re amazing,” Hanamaki says. He’s not sure how long they’ve been sitting there, looking at their entire third year as it is wrapped up neatly in a single photo album.

Hanamaki remembers Oikawa’s insistence on watching the Interhigh again, some months ago. Of those soft touches and fond glances. He imagines Matsukawa watching him through the lense of his camera with the same, hidden affection and his throat starts to seize up.

Blinking he flips back quickly to the more aesthetic photographs, the ones of the school grounds, the clubroom, the first snow of winter, the first blooms of spring. “Even though I’m not actually working there anymore I bet I could get you some space at the gallery,” he says around the strained feeling in his vocal chords.

Matsukawa leans against him. “I bet Nakahara-san would just love that,” he chuckles.

“He’ll love it, Issei, trust me.” Hanamaki looks up, breaking through his emotion with a determined grin. “A new artist to make a little profit off of is much better than a sexual harassment lawsuit any day.”

Matsukawa observes him carefully, making sure Hanamaki is okay, is secure in joking about it as he is.

“Blackmail, Hiro?” Matsuakwa smirks. “I never would have guessed you were capable of anything so devious.”

“What can I say?” Hanamaki shrugs. “I guess I’m pretty cocksure after all.”

“That’s for sure,” Matsukawa hums with a lecherous grin.

Even though he’d purposely walked into it, Hanamaki can’t help but fluster a bit. “ _Issei_ ,” he whispers, trying for scandalized.

Matsukawa leans in even further, going so far as to retrieve the album from Hanamaki’s slack hands and place it out of harm’s way on the coffee table. His lips curve as he raises his brows suggestively at Hanamaki from his position, ready to pounce.

Hanamaki licks his lips. “They’ll kill us if we’re late,” he says, pointedly.

Matsukawa shrugs, squeezing his thigh. “I think we’ve got time.”

Hanamaki feels his lips pulling into a grin, curling his body into Matsukawa’s easily, because it was true; they had all the time in the world now, didn’t they?

Matsukawa kisses him back eagerly, brushing reverent fingers against Hanamaki neck and cheek. It’s soft and nice, but he shivers when he remembers what else those hands are capable of. Though, that would certainly have to wait because really, truly they _couldn’t_ be late. It seems they owe their meddling friends too much, after all.

“Shit,” Hanamaki hisses as Matsukawa tugs at his lower lip with his teeth. “Pants off, _now_ , otherwise they’ll really kill us.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Matsuakawa hums, fingers working quickly to obey. “Should we take this to the bed?”

Hanamaki glances over at the clock on the wall as he lifts his hips for Matsukawa. “We’ve got exactly forty-eight minutes. Is that enough time?”

“Plenty,” Matsuakwa says, dipping forward to kiss at Hanamaki’s stomach.

“Then by all means,” Hanamaki gestures forward. “Take me to bed, Issei.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Matsukawa grumbles, though he lifts Hanamaki with ease.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Hanamaki bites back, wrapping his legs firmly around the other’s waist.

“We’re both—” Matsukawa pauses mid-step to kiss him, warm and quick, glasses pressing into Hanamaki’s nose. “— _lucky_ , I guess.”

And then, unceremoniously, he drops Hanamaki onto the bed with a bounce, crawling forward to quell their laughter with another kiss.

Yes, Hanamaki Takahiro does consider himself lucky.

The luck comes of course with things like securing his best friends for life back in high school, getting offered his dream job before the age of thirty, and catching Oikawa’s cliché, stereotypical and irrationally cute toss-bouquet at The Wedding Of The Century.        

Oh and also, just for the record, he considers himself pretty damn lucky in love too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Beautiful artwork above is courtesy of the incredible [CheesyShenanigans.](https://cheesyshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/169984187802/the-last-picture-is-the-only-one-matsukawa) Check out their amazing art--NOW! :3
> 
> To those that have been with me since the beginning, I thank you. And for those just joining us, I thank you too. I can't fathom how wonderful your comments and support are for me as a writer and I just can't thank you enough for sticking with this story till the end. 
> 
> I am both relieved and heartbroken to see this story end, but I needed the closure and I think so did you all and I hope this last chapter did the story justice. Of course, this universe means so much to me that I can't imagine not writing for it again--so be on the lookout for one-shots (you know, probably something from that infamous Wedding of The Century) and vignettes and more naughty things. I have also toyed with the idea of writing a piece from Matsukawa's perspective that would overlap this story...so maybe that too?
> 
> But for now, thank you for reading and commenting and sending your love. It means the world to me and this story would be nowhere without all of you!
> 
> [come talk matsuhana to me on tumblr](https://h-lovely.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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